Rings, Revenge, Superstitions: Two Searches—One for Death, One for Life

By Jim Stuckey

Does good exist? Or is it only a matter of a culture’s definition or description or of personal position and opinion? The characters are two US Marines, an Iranian military family, an Iranian business mogul and his vengeful son, the daughter of a young US immigrant from Iran, a handful of educators, a curmudgeonly hotel owner, a hired killer, and a corrupt deputy sheriff. Through their eyes, we see the impact a single deeply considered idea, good or evil, can have on one’s life. In Iran, Vietnam, California, and Arizona, the players reveal their personalities and characters. We discover the impact that one life and one idea—the idea of rings—can have years and even decades later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984532633

Jim Stuckey

Jim Stuckey grew up on a 250-acre dairy farm just one mile from the town of Lathrop, Missouri (population: 1,049). He walked to and from school unless rain or snow was falling. He received his Bachelor of Science degree, then a Master of Arts degree In Education (Math and science). He moved to Denver to teach mathematics at North High School. In his first Colorado summer he served as the program director for a handicapped children’s camp on the Grand Mesa…a transformative experience. His second Colorado summer began in the Colorado Outward Bound School’s instructor training course, followed by his first course as a COBS Instructor. That autumn he joined the Oak Ridge Institute of Nuclear Studies’ team of Exhibits Managers, conducting stage presentations at the American Museum of Atomic Energy and at high schools throughout the US. After three years of being called “Mr. Atom Man” he returned to the Colorado Outward Bound School as assistant to the Director, and to instruct courses with student populations other than teen-aged males: women, industrial supervisors, juvenile delinquents, etc. In 1971 he joined the Prescott College faculty.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tehran, 1969

Satan! a voice called from behind them. Two Satans! Their minds clicked on other times of threat—sometimes imagined, sometimes real. They glanced at each other. This was a first, being called Satans.

Great. Two Satans, Ron muttered.

Yessir, that would be us.

The midday sun pressed on their backs. Through their shoes, the sandy dirt scorched their feet. They kept a steady pace, not looking back. A few seconds later, they heard again, Two Satan! Other voices now joined the first, and then another, above and to the left. JJ thought he heard one ahead of them too, but he wasn’t sure enough to comment.

They carried themselves with a mix of deference and confidence. They’d practiced this walk in training and in the streets and in seedy bars in a dozen towns and cities. United States Marine Sergeants Ronald Frederick Bergquist and James Julian Lanteaux had worked together as special investigation officers for the past sixteen months. SI included finding and checking out drug networks and identifying dirty cafes and whorehouses that served disease—along with food, drink, drugs, and sex—to American military men. They had acquired a taste for the turf, the back streets and alleys, the dives, gambling dens, risky bars, and other recesses in the underbellies of commercial zones in the cities of four countries. For many, these dark places became conduits to fun and adventure; for others, they served as a greased chute to the grave.

Street to the left at about fifty yards, Ron said in a low voice. Both saw this as a possible exit route. The fifty yards now felt like a mile as their world narrowed, squeezing their lives. What we don’t know is whether or not it’s really a way out.

Right, said JJ. And we don’t know how many of those guys are between us and that street. And we don’t know what kinds of knives or guns or other tools of our destruction they’re carrying in their hot little …

One-story channel on the right at thirty yards, maybe more, Ron interrupted. Check the shade line.

Got it. I say we take the roof if this Satan shit doesn’t slack off by the time we get there.

I’m with you, partner. That’s plan A.

Two steps later, Ron whispered, Wait … Listen. They stopped. The street had gone quiet. Five more seconds. They heard nothing. Then different sounds, new sounds. Uh-oh. No more talk, now they’re on the move. Unseen eyes pressed hard on their mental space, crowding them.

Now we know how that nurse in New York felt, said JJ. What was her name? Kitty … Kitty something, that’s it. See, we’re just like her.

Ron turned, his face a frowning question. What the …

Okay, see, here we are in the valley of danger maybe even death, and we’ve got all these God-fearing neighbors, and you just know some of them would like to take us in and get to know us. Just like Kitty.

This low-talking rap was not new to Ron. He’d heard it at the movies, at bad parties, and in tight situations—like this one. It was JJ’s near-automatic tactic to stay calm. He’d think through the details of their plight then imagine their options. When he had two or three in mind, he switched on the comedy. He took it as his job to keep himself and others calm to prevent a sellout to panic.

Oh shit, JJ! Ron stopped as if he’d been hit in the chest. This really could be the place where those guys got it.

What guys? Got what? What are you talking about?

You know, the three soldiers you were talking about a couple of days ago. You know, … heads, legs …

Oh yeah. Yeah. So why are you bringing that up again? Especially now?

Oh, I don’t know, Ron said casually now. Maybe I just thought it might give you a little extra shot of motivation.

Oh sure. Good thinking, Mr. Motivation, Mr. Knute Rockne … Okay, now … look. Look there, up ahead.

Ron followed JJ’s pointing. He was still. Then quietly, he said, Frenchy.

Yeah … what?

"We’re in the shit now, amigo. We are way deep in the shit … We gotta do a hard scan on this path."

Roger that.

JJ remained in place, looking at the ground. By the time he raised his head, Ron had moved fifteen feet away. Hold up, Dr. Livingston, JJ said. I don’t want to have to go hunting for you in this jungle … or the river.

Atta boy, Ron said, with gusto. That’s the old spirit of adventure.

Get stuffed!

Chapter 2

Yasid Saleh was the only child of a successful businessman. He grew up wealthy by Tehran standards, but, as he had noted at the age of ten, wealthy only at a district level. This "district he observed at that time, spread only through his own neighborhood and as far as the dozen neighborhoods surrounding. All this lay within the radius of about two kilometers. After a few expeditions beyond this home zone, he got it that out there, his father’s name was rarely known. And even when it was recognized, the tone of the acknowledgment lacked any awe, certainly in comparison to the regard he felt within his home neighborhood.

Yasid’s father, Ahmad Saleh, was well connected in the business community and with prominent men in the local government. He was admired by clerical leaders and most of the locals who knew him. He was wealthy. Understandably, these government and clerical connections were integral to his business success. He was also known as Ahmad Kahn, or Saleh Kahn, which, in the remaining tribal areas, was the title given to the chieftain. When anyone used the term with respect to him, Ahmad offered a demure look and a dismissive comment. But he savored the regard.

Ahmad’s friends and associates knew him also as one who enjoyed his wealth. He was particularly admired by his more liberal friends for enjoying that wealth in three locations, and maybe even more, according to rumor. His home in Tehran was the showplace of the neighborhood, but he preferred to entertain his closest friends at his home in Esfahan, with its golf course and spacious house of concubines. The time-shared villa in Spain was used strictly for business, particularly international negotiations and dealings. He was fluent in English and Spanish, at least to the extent that his conversations with those who spoke only those languages suffered very little. His native language was Farsi, and he was competent in three dialects.

In the surrounding neighborhoods, Yasid, even as a child, was known by all and admired by most simply because he was born to such a prestigious father. Chance encounters with local residents brought forth comments, such as Oh yes, yes! Here is the golden son of Ahmad and Ahmad! Ah, what a wonderful man! What a leader and example of virtue! What an important citizen! At times, it was even What a man of power … Next to the Shah (sometimes it would be the Ayatollah) himself! or Oh yes! The man of business who is also quite a mullah!

Within the perimeter of his ready recognition, he was generally treated like any other ten-year-old. He was always well dressed, clean, and ready with good manners and a pleasant, if somewhat businesslike, approach. But beyond his region’s boundary, he received no more indulgence than any other clean, polite boy of his age. He learned through experience not to show disappointment at that failure on the part of the ignorant public.

Along with others’ failings, however, were instances, particularly among his age peers, when he was not specifically recognized or when his parentage was simply not appreciated. In these instances, he might receive scowls, harsh words, and even threatening gestures. This was fairly common among young boys who had developed a strong sense of who is us and who is them. When these boys identified Yasid as a child of significant wealth, the treatment was enhanced. Oh, here is Yasid, the glorious brat of the Shah’s lackey. Well, little mister prince of shit, take your attitude out to your brothers, the pigs and dogs, and have them bow to you! Oh yes, little exalted one, and while you’re at it, have your pig-dog father and his whore of a wife bow to their little pig-dog prince and put Allah in the toilet hole while Satan rules your shit-home! Get out of here! You do not belong! Get out of our neighborhood!

Yasid got out. These crushing encounters sent him stepping quickly—but outwardly retaining an erect pride—toward home, at least to the safety of his father’s ring of influence. Inwardly, he was completely defeated. He felt pain and humiliation. He wished he had been born to another family, particularly one like those whose youth, right now, possessed what he lacked—inclusion, status, and power. As he walked, and when their voices no longer beat on his mind, his fear and his jealousy shifted to resentment, anger, and hatred.

He would pause by a little grove of olive trees or a vacant bit of land and imagine his father dealing harshly with these shit dogs who taunted him. His fantasies ranged from a simple display of cash to elaborate aggression and violence. He dreamed of walking up to several of these brutes and quickly punching all their noses before they could move. They would then weep and beg him to stop! Then they would beg him to be their leader, the center of their world. He dreamed of spending lavishly in the shop of a man who had shown him little respect and having that owner deliver the goods to the street just outside the shop. Then he would walk over the goods, stomping on them and inviting passersby to do the same.

At times, his fantasies continued long after he had arrived safely at home. One day, as he waited uncomfortably for an audience with his father, he imagined entering an offender’s shop. He saw himself with a large stick, destroying as much as possible while the guilty man watched in tears and fear. Finally, he would beat the lowly dog unconscious.

As he neared his thirteenth birthday, after a session of particularly brutal taunting by two boys, Yasid suddenly attacked the larger of the boys, who stood at least two inches taller than he. He flailed blindly, a windmill of wild and ineffective swings and punches while his more streetwise target ducked and bobbed, avoiding contact. Then a fist to Yasid’s mouth stunned him. Time slowed and almost stopped for him as he fell straight backward, stumbling, but then recovering just in time not to fall flat on his back.

With great amazement and relief, he noticed that the blow did not hurt. He couldn’t believe it. There was no pain at all! Then he tasted blood in his mouth and felt, floating around in there, a small chip from one of his teeth. He decided that he needed to keep his guard up better and also to try to control his fists to take deliberate aim. These thoughts buoyed his spirit. He moved with new energy to resume the battle. He waded in and connected now and then while receiving more blows to his ribs and face. Finally, he landed a good punch to the side of the head. The boy staggered and went down, obviously dazed.

Yasid, amazed once more, watched his opponent, on his hands and knees, shaking his head, checking for blood. As the boy slowly got to one knee, preparing to resume his attack, Yasid heard a grunt from behind his left shoulder. He glanced behind him. The second boy, eyes wide and his jaw set, was moving toward him. Yasid moved backward in the direction of the oncoming boy, then whirled around and punched him square on the nose. This boy reeled backward as the lower part of his face bloomed crimson. He put his hand to his face, expecting to see the usual result of a nosebleed. Immediately, blood soaked the palm of his hand. He stared at his hand, and then he saw the blood on his shirt. He began to moan, as his knees buckled. Arms at his sides, Yasid stood and gaped in amazement at what he had wrought.

By this time, the first boy had recovered his feet and approached Yasid from behind, ready to deliver a rabbit punch to the back of his neck. But as he cocked his fist, he noticed the blood streaming down the face and onto the shirt of his friend.

Stop! he shouted.

No! said Yasid, spinning around. We will continue. Now it is your turn again.

No, no! he shouted into Yasid’s face. We can do that later! Right now we have to stop this bleeding and then clean up Nagub and his shirt or all of our fathers will find out and we will all be in big trouble.

Yasid was puzzled. His only notion of fighting was something close to to the death or at least until someone ran away or surrendered. He could find no words of response.

Come. Come with us to the spring … behind the trees … over there. He pointed with his chin. We do not need to continue this. It is over. He turned to his friend. Nagub. Here, let’s see if you are still bleeding. Nagub stood with his arms straight down and slightly behind him, the way a small boy would pose to give his mother unobstructed access to his face and whatever issue it presented.

They walked without talking down the street to a path that led to the little grove of olive trees and a spring. There, Nagub took off his blood-soaked shirt, and while he pulled water with his cupped hands from the stream that emanated from the spring and splashed it on his face, the other two washed his shirt in the stream. When they were satisfied the stains were sufficiently removed, they laid it over some low branches and sat down together. No one had spoken a word from the time they had left the fight scene nearly fifteen minutes ago.

I am Tiblissan, said the larger boy, and this is Nagub.

Why are you and the others so mean to me? asked Yasid. Why do you want to torment me all the time?

I don’t know, said Tiblissan. We just always thought you saw yourself as better than us and that you looked down on us because your father has more money than our fathers. He hesitated and then said, And the mullah says your father is a spy for SAVAK, and that this is how he has become wealthy.

That’s not true, Yasid replied, with a fair amount of heat. My father is a successful businessman!

Chapter 3

Yasid’s regard for his father had always been mixed: 20 percent admiration, 40 percent fear, and 20 percent loathing. He admired his father’s success and the obvious regard given by other adults in the neighborhoods and in business with him. There was also the fact that he was provided with nearly all the material needs and wants he could imagine. His father dressed Yasid to be the envy of his peers and of any boys of his age he might encounter in the mosque, school, or streets. He also cherished his father for the obvious delight the man took in him, showing him off at every opportunity, bragging on him to his own peers, and defending against many of his mother’s injunctions and demands.

Yasid’s fear, on the other hand, was born of his father’s seemingly random but strict expectations regarding his behavior and on his success among his peers. Ahmad would call little Yasid to join him and a group of men. After a glowing introduction, Ahmad would inquire of his son about his performance at school. In the first months of his schooling, the report would represent as accurate a replay of events and results as Yasid could manage.

If the report was good, Ahmad would smile with glee and caress his son. Turning to his audience, he would open his arms around Yasid as if to say, "You see, it is like shazam! I have done some magic by producing a prodigy who is also beautiful!" Even at the age of five, Yasid was aware of his father’s apparent regard for him and his reported achievements.

When Yasid gave an account in which his performance was less than laudable, the father’s reaction was impossible to predict. One time it would be, Oh well, a boy must have some fun every now and then. And besides, it is good to have a bit of scamp in one’s makeup. Another time, it would be "What kind of son is that! Have I not impressed upon you the importance of excelling? I send you to the best school in the best of clothing and with the best of supplies and fatherly support and guidance, and this is what you offer in return? Mediocrity?"

Within a few months, the news from Yasid had become consistently good. He realized that his father never verified his stories no matter to what degree Yasid’s rendition matched the real events or even whether or not those events had actually occurred. But he lived with the knowledge that someday his father might check up on one of his stories. When such possibilities occurred to him, he did his best to control his shuddering.

One of Yasid’s never-forgotten memories was an encounter with his father soon after he had turned twelve. Ahmad had said he was going to work in his home office that day. Yasid pestered to let him observe, just to watch him at his work, even though he had been strictly disallowed from the room. Now, when his father gave what was obviously the final NO! Yasid, as do boys in every land and culture, muttered words about unfairness and parental tranny. He started to walk away.

Sit down! Ahmad thundered.

As though struck by a compression burst from above, Yasid dropped instantly to the floor, butt first, his chin on his chest.

Four long seconds passed. Yasid noticed two things: He was not yet dead, and he had somehow assumed a cross-legged position on the floor. He waited for whatever fate—and he felt certain that death was one of fate’s options—was to be given him.

He heard his father’s slow and quiet footsteps behind him. The feet passed by him … close. Ahmad walked toward a chair set in the hallway beneath a photograph of the shah. Slowly and silently, Ahmad lifted the heavy chair and carried it toward his son, rendered motionless and breathless from the sphere of pressure. He placed the chair on the floor just two short paces from Yasid. He drew the belt from his trousers. He eased himself into the chair and folded the leather onto his lap. Through that terrifying interval, from the moment the thunderclap had sent Yasid to the floor, the eyes of the father remained locked on those of the sinful son. For two minutes, nothing was said. In fact, for that long interval, no words entered Yasid’s mind. His mind knew how dangerous that would be.

The two minutes passed.

Please, Yasid, the Kahn whispered, again with mystery, pain, and threat. Would you think and pray on this and advise your father on this if necessary?

Yes, Father, Yasid managed to whisper. I will do that.

Chapter 4

From the time Yasid was a posttoddler, Ahmad had taken him to the mosque two blocks south of their home. These initial visits gradually became more frequent. Yasid had done his best to be a pious boy. His first recollection was not of his home or his parents, but of the little mosque on the corner. In his memory, he saw people packed together and kneeling, and he saw the mujtahid’s power over these people. Upon the cleric’s gesture, all the people, himself included, knelt, sat, stood, recited, prayed, or shouted. As a child of six, he did his best to please Mujtahid Ariq al-Gatah, in large part because this also pleased his father.

When Yasid was eleven, the family still visited Ariq’s mosque, but more often, they traveled a bit farther to say prayers and take instruction with Mujtahid Ali Javad-Sadar. Ahmad spoke of himself, among friends he trusted, as a cafeteria muslim and that Javad-Sadar’s flexibility appealed to him. Ahmad maintained his religious credentials, in part, by memorizing and frequently repeating, particularly to Yasid, at least one idea or sentence from the mujtahid’s pronouncements each week.

In time, Ahmad arranged to take Yasid to meet privately with another of the local mullahs. Hoseyn Nuri was a quiet man who had for two years been a student (or talabeh) at the renowned madraseh in Qom. The ill health of both his aged parents required him to return to Tehran to care and provide for them. Initially, he operated the family fabric store and held services and study sessions in his home.

His followers increased in numbers, and donations and consulting income exceeded his net income from the store. He closed the store and converted it to a neighborhood mosque. Hoseyn Nuri constantly sought to understand the underlying meanings and various interpretations of the Koran. Regarding business, his interpretations were quite liberal and flexible. When it came to politics, he was conservative to the point of being reactionary and radical.

Even after closing his shop, Hoseyn remained a sort of consultant to other businessmen, including Ahmad. His specialty was giving advice regarding how one might square his business practices with the teachings of the Prophet. His conversations with Ahmad tended to verify Ahmad’s liberal views of their religion, particularly as those views enhanced his willingness to engage in businesses of which other mullahs would not approve. His argument went along the line of Allah knows all, sees all, and drives all. Naturally, that included Ahmad’s tactics in business, as well as the particular businesses that made him money. Every now and then, as part of his son’s education, Ahmad would take Yasid with him to a consultation with the mullah. These conversations were often followed by generous contributions from Ahmad to the mullah, to his mujtahid, and to their mosques.

From these sessions, and for his own developing personal ethic and fantasies of adult life, Yasid developed an appreciation for flexibility in understanding the Prophet’s words. He saw his future self as a sort of deputy interpreter of the Koran and a leader of his peers. He also received encouragement from Hoseyn for his activist attitudes against Western influences toward modernization for Iran. For Hoseyn, Muhammad Reza Shah was the living symbol and delivery vehicle for these noxious influences.

***

Let your actions speak for Allah, read the small bushy-bearded mullah.

The six boys, all eleven to fourteen years old, including Yasid (and, he was amazed to learn on his first visit, Nagub), sat quietly, cross-legged, glancing at one another and at their teacher. Hoseyn looked only at the book before him, lying open on the small table behind which he knelt, sitting on his feet. Minutes passed. The boys knew they were waiting for Salaman and that they would wait for at least ten more minutes before their teacher would decide to proceed. They also knew his short reading would be, this time, specifically related to Salaman, their tardy classmate—and his error.

Salaman appeared in the open door. He looked over the congregation. He entered without a sound and placed himself behind the semicircle of his colleagues.

In a voice of great softness, the teacher said, Please, honorable Salaman, join the others … here. He pointed. Between Yasid and Ishmael.

The latecomer bowed. The six waiting boys shifted to give him space, and Salaman moved to the keystone place in the arc of bodies.

Again: "Let your actions speak for Allah." He gazed straight into Salaman’s reddened face for several seconds, which was like an hour to Salaman and at least fifteen minutes to the other boys. Then he focused on each of the others, moving first to Yasid, who sat on Salaman’s right, then all the way left to the boy at that end of the group. Keeping their slow pace, his eyes moved back to his right and again fixed for a time on each boy, one by one, all the way to the other end of the group. Finally, his now piercing gaze came back to Salaman, who felt the cleric’s eyes drilling deep into his brain. After several seconds, which for Salaman was yet another hour, Hoseyn closed his eyes and bowed his head.

A half minute later, he looked up, lifted his head, and quietly said, Gentlemen. Faithful. Warriors. What has Allah said through the Prophet to us, directly to each and every one of us, about our duties when we, the faithful, the chosen, are being attacked?

All fourteen eyes were on the mullah, but no one spoke as each acolyte prayed either for a miracle of inspiration and words or for one of the others to speak. The teacher’s now-accusing eyes scanned those of his students.

Repel them, whispered Yasid. Then aloud: Kill them. Use the sword, the stone, the cudgel. Drive them into the sea.

Good, came the channeled voice of God. Good, Yasid … And what if in this particular instance, the infidel gets the better of you? What then? Have you failed Allah? Has Allah abandoned you and allowed evil to triumph? He scanned the group. Tiblissan. What about this? As you know, the history of our people tells of just such terrible episodes. What do you have to say about this?

Tiblissan squirmed a little, but with only a bit of hesitation. He said, Allah never abandons us. His response was immediate, but it carried only a mote of conviction. He paused, hoping someone else would come under the fierce eyes. No. Hoseyn remained fixed on Tiblissan, probing deep into his eyes to hunt down his soul.

The boy cleared his throat. These are the times Allah is testing us … testing our resolve … And our faith. He paused again, aching to receive the signal that he had contributed enough. No signal. He continued. Our duty is to do all that we can do and never stop short of that, win or lose. It is for Allah to determine whether we win or we lose. Either way, we praise him and thank him for the honor of serving him.

Now he stopped, as much from the surprise he felt at having been able to provide a response of such length and, he reflected, of such quality. His chest loosened, and his breathing returned almost to normal. He felt more comfortable and more confident, at least enough to resist cutting his eyes to his left and right to find confirmation in the faces of his friends. A modicum of pride came invisibly to rest within him. But however much he may have felt a little glad of his performance, he would not let his face show it. His eyes stayed with the mullah’s.

Thank you, honorable Tiblissan, the teacher said quietly. Then he rose to his feet. He held the holy book in his left hand and raised his right in a fist, perhaps as though holding a sword. Slay the enemies of God’s people! he thundered. The hearts and lungs of the congregation quit for a long moment. "And remember this, lways remember this: It is in the devotion to the death of evil, devotion to the death of the infidel and the nonbeliever who trades in evil … It is in these that Allah is served. It is in the action, more than the accomplishment! Here is precisely what the Prophet has written." He opened the book and read,

O ye who believe! Seek help in steadfastness and prayer, Lo! Allah is with the steadfast.

And call not those who are slain in the way of Allah ‘dead.’ Nay, they are living, only ye perceive not.

And surely We shall try you with something of fear and hunger, and loss of wealth and lives and crops; but give glad tidings to the steadfast,

Who say, when a misfortune striketh them: Lo! We are Allah’s and lo! unto Him we are returning.

Such are they on whom are blessings from their Lord, and mercy. Such are the rightly guided.

He looked up at them, kindness and love in his eyes. So you see, Allah gives no assurance of victory in earthly struggles. He knows this would destroy his chosen people, for people are always subject to weakness. A guarantee of victory would lead to passivity and a state of parasitism! You—all of you here today—would become leeches on the flesh of God!

He fell to a silence made ponderous by the cast of his face turned heavenward. He held high the holy book in both hands, looked up at it with full attention, and then in a breaking voice whispered, And so would I.

He stopped speaking, stopped breathing, and so too did his seven followers, the tightness and ache in their chests so severe. For a moment, Yasid feared that the mullah’s words and intensity would be followed by a sort of silent implosion, a rapture, actually, that would suddenly take the mullah in an episode of ascendance whose vortex would quite simply suck all of them straight up into heaven. Glorious, yes, he thought. But he was not ready to go.

Instead, the teacher lowered the book and his eyes and resumed speaking, this time in a conversational, explanatory tone. No, my beloved soldiers of God … we are but human. Allah knows this. And this is precisely why he asks us to maintain our resolve, our vigilance, our willingness to die for him and his people. This is why it is the action more than the result. He paused, delivering a fatherly gaze to each boy. This is why you are rewarded for your truly dedicated effort even more than your success.

He returned to his knees, laid the book again on the little table, and gazed at his congregation with a benevolent smile. "You have witnessed right here in this room a small battle, a battle that in the beginning was not well joined, a battle that lacked resolve on the part of Allah’s warrior. But then that young warrior reached inside himself for that resolve, that holy dedication. And a near defeat became a victory.

Tiblissan, he said softly, reaching his hand toward the youth, "is the warrior of this event. Tiblissan hoped, at first … no … wished, at first, that his routine and half-hearted response was all that was to be asked of him. To be sure, his first response was correct. But it carried very little truth. Reflect on your own feelings, gentlemen, as Tiblissan finished his initial response. You, along with Tiblissan, hoped his answer was sufficient, for your motives too were aimed at dealing with your humble teacher. He paused and then continued, his intensity rising. And now, reflect on Tiblissan’s growing strength and honor on the growing presence of Allah’s will within him and also within you, my young warriors for God, as your brother dealt with the issue of the followers, the warriors of Allah, facing earthly defeat."

His voice had become toned with pride and admiration. "Then and not until then, every one of us here felt this young warrior’s devotion to the cause of understanding Allah’s will." He paused again, dropping his shoulders, sitting back on his feet.

Now, before we read the words of Allah together, I want you to reflect silently on this question: In this small episode of Tiblissan’s eternal salvation, which rose first in him? His devotion to understanding or his effort? He looked at them one by one then closed his eyes and assumed a state of meditation. Most of the boys closed their eyes too. All of them managed to breathe silently for almost seven minutes.

Now …, said the mullah, hesitating a moment to allow for his students’ reentry into the material world, let us read. Surah 2, verses 161 to 170.

***

These seven youths, over the period of eight months, had learned quite a lot from the mullah about how much sin was being practiced in the world, from the international to the neighborhood level. They had also learned that history showed the need to have a supply of men—warriors for righteousness—who banded together to serve in that capacity. Their battle cries, when they went to mete out justice, typically referred to the sword of Allah and their role in wielding that sword. They maintained vigilance regarding infractions of the Koran and Shia law in their neighborhoods. Infractions within the family, on the other hand, were overlooked, except for those of younger siblings.

In the past year, they had chased several outsiders from their turf, having agreed that they were not only strangers, but that they also appeared to have no business in the neighborhood. They had agreed that such outsiders were inherently unworthy and probably evil. This could lead only to bad things, they imagined, anything from harassment to murder. They, as guardians for Allah, could not tolerate the risk of harm to their community, so they chased the offenders away by yelling, throwing rocks, threatening with sticks, and when their target seemed sufficiently weak, beating the victim until they were satisfied their lesson would stick.

More than any other single element of conflict, blood—anyone’s blood—brought them close to one another and fueled their fervor. The most powerful bonding episode in their short history had been their execution of a dog belonging to a family known to hold certain sympathies with the shah’s initiatives and an unhealthy interest in the ways of the West. The dog, named Chakka, was known by everyone within two kilometers of its owners’ house for it roamed quietly through the neighborhoods. People greeted it, petted it, and fed it, as circumstance and whim suggested.

The Warriors, as they called themselves, all knew of this dog, as well as a half dozen others in the area, and had thought nothing of them until one of their group reported that this particular dog, Chakka, had a brand-new collar that had been sent directly from London by an in-law.

Three of the boys were walking in the street at dusk one evening and came upon the dog. They had heard of this foreign collar, and they had agreed that if any one of them had the opportunity, he was to take the collar from the dog and bring it to their next meeting. These meetings followed their weekly instruction with mullah Hoseyn. At this meeting, they would cut the collar into many small pieces and lay one piece outside the door of as many homes as possible, starting with and radiating out from the dog owner’s house.

Chakka had readily approached the boys when they called. They took the collar from him, but then, rather than letting him go, they decided he needed to be punished for wearing the accursed symbol. They put the collar back on him, and by it they led him to their meeting place, the site of Yasid’s first real fistfight.

Each of them expected they would tie the dog to a tree, throw a few rocks at it, and chastise it for wearing Western garb. Then they would take the collar and release the dog. This, indeed, was how it began. But the fourth rock opened a gash on the dog’s nose, very near its left eye. Blood immediately covered that eye and soaked the white hair of the dog’s face. They froze for a moment, staring. At first, each of them felt regret, which soon turned to shame, as the dog’s eyeball of blood accused them. Finally, their emotions shifted to fear, a fear that the dog would somehow point to them as the cause of the wound. Fear, in its turn, begat anger at the dog for causing them discomfort and possible punishment. Finally, there rose in them the need for retribution. The full emotional cycle took only a few seconds.

Yes, growled Yasid, as the boys looked at each other and at the dog. They picked up more stones, larger stones this time, and began pelting the unblessed creature. More wounds opened, and more blood covered Chakka’s head and face. A final stone ended it.

It was nearly dark. They hurriedly dug a grave, dropped the dog and its collar in it, and covered it over. Chakka was never found by his owners or by his neighbors, who kept an eye out for the dog for several weeks.

Chapter 5

The two Marines had been posted at the US Embassy in Tehran for eight months. When they had a day off together, they walked the main thoroughfares of the city. This time, they took time to plan their urban adventure, as they called it. They talked about going deep. They wanted to see how and where the local people lived, not just where the wealthy shopped and drove or where the idiots went to get mugged.

They dressed in khakis, but wore no insignias, stripes, or other markers. Still, only the most naïve local would not recognize them as military. They were both of medium height and trim, but not slender. Their posture and soldier haircuts confirmed what the khakis said.

Both men felt a certain lightness to being alive in what was still to them an interesting place. Most of their working hours for most of their working days were spent in their offices—workspaces, really—and in various duties within the compound. Occasionally, their field work took them to unsanctioned parties and other scenes of potential or active trouble. Today, however, they felt expansive, ready to experience a bigger world than their duties ever allowed them.

By nine o’clock, the day had turned hot. Fluffy clouds scattered in a clear azure sky, typical of an early summer day in Tehran. They moved past modern buildings along a clean, paved street with a moderate amount of vehicle traffic. Shoppers walked, drove, entered, and exited taxis. Every now and then, a local man would make eye contact with them and they would all nod. This was the beginning, walking from the embassy compound to the heart of the commercial district. The shah’s modernizing initiatives were working.

They walked four blocks south then turned left onto the Boulevard of the Caliphs. They’d been this way several times over the past months, and were familiar with it. Even in their short time in Tehran they noticed changes. They saw more cars in the streets—Buicks, Fords, Rovers, Peugeots—and more Western style store fronts and arrangements and glitz inside, more modern professional and office buildings. More glass and steel.

They turned from the boulevard onto a feeder avenue crowded with smaller shops whose clientele came from the neighborhoods. More than the smaller size of the shops, the two men noticed the absence of Western influence. This was not a tourist district. Each shop had a sign over its front door or window, but there were no English translations here as there were on Safi al-Din Street. There were no commercially made signs, posters, or other bits of advertisement. Everything was handmade, mostly on white squares of paper, done in broad felt-tipped pen. All of it was Arabic.

Notice the change, JJ? asked Ron quietly.

Oh yeah. I noticed. Narrow streets. Smaller stores. Darker stores. And all the signs are Farsi now. Or Arabic. Whatever. Is this true? That the language—these signs—are spelled in Farsi, but the script is Arabic?

You got it … well, that’s what Charlie says. To me, it’s just a bunch of squiggles. He looked around at the signs and then back at JJ. Suddenly, we are out of the tourist district, eh? Very little Western influence … maybe none. I don’t see it, anyway.

Neither do I, muttered JJ with his impish grin. Of the two, JJ was the joker though Ron did his part as well. Ron was two years older, and maybe that one trait set him up to be more serious. The Elder. But you know, this is just what we’re looking for. These people must come from the local neighborhoods.

Yeah, just what we wanted, all right … But all of a sudden, I have this bumpy feeling in my gut.

I know what you mean. JJ looked around. It’s like this place is crowding me. I thought if we got off the busy streets it would be more peaceful, you know, like small buildings … space between them. You know, like Mayberry … And I guess it’s peaceful enough, but … I don’t know … the narrow streets, the clutter, all these little squiggle signs …

A half hour later, they were passing a small shop displaying in its single large window the usual array of jewelry, cooking implements, and stacks of reading material. They were both surprised to see at the top of its front window, surrounded by the little square signs, an eight-by-ten photograph of Jack Kennedy driving the PT 109. The Marines stopped, eyes fixed on the picture. JJ moved to the door and reached for its handle.

What are you doing? You’re not going in there! Ron whispered.

Let’s see if that picture’s for sale.

What! You already … JJ had pushed the door open and was stepping in. Still shouting in a whisper, Ron said, Okay … But Jesus Christ! You’re looking for trouble! He followed JJ into the dimly lit space and smelled burnt toast—or burnt bread of some kind, he thought. Small tables piled with goods—clothing, cookware, all manner of dishes, cups, fabrics—crowded the dark room. Narrow paths separated the tables. A small dark man slipped through a blood-red curtain at the back left corner of the room and stood before them. His bronze face was deeply wrinkled, his teeth mostly missing. A tight shock of hair was as black as his eyes.

Good morning, he said without a smile, but with a slight bow. You want buy? He lifted a bundle of small shawls of various colors and weaves. He had sold more of these to westerners than all other items in his shop combined.

No, no, said Ron quickly. No, just looking. He pointed to his eyes then to a collection of wristwatches protected by a glass cake cover on a small low table, which stood near the entryway space. His fingers came back to his eyes and then to a rack of men’s shirts against the back wall. We just look. Only look. Then shaking his head and reaching into his pocket and pulling out his empty hand, he added, No buy. No buy.

JJ had moved to the front of the shop. Now he looked back at the man, who remained near the curtain. Still looking back, he reached up and tapped the back of the Kennedy photograph. How much for this? He brought out four wrinkled bills and several coins of Iranian money. The small man glided around a neat stack of cardboard boxes, the top one of which held tea glasses for viewing and sale. He looked at JJ as though he didn’t understand.

Frenchy! Come on! Ron said, the way a parent might command a six-year-old to obey. He moved to the door and grabbed the latch. Again, he whisper-shouted, Let’s get out of here!

The old man’s eyes opened wide, and he gave JJ an apologetic smile. He shook his head. Not for sale … no buy. He then launched a string of Farsi, which, given the man’s enthusiasm and inflection, they could only guess listed the profound reasons he would never sell the Kennedy photo. JJ reached into another pocket and pulled out a thick bundle of rials. He reached them toward the man.

How much?

The old man’s face lined over with concern, as though he’d just heard that a close member of the family had become deathly ill. His head swiveled slowly back and forth, and his expression changed to sorrow. He dropped his eyes to observe his folded hands, brown and wrinkled. Slowly, and with pain showing in his face after his eyes had locked briefly on the wad of bills in JJ’s still outstretched right hand, he looked up. Slowly—painfully, it seemed—he shook his head again.

Here, JJ said, as he slid around the small shopkeeper while sticking the wad of bills back into its pocket. With that same hand, he now reached for the nearest stack of shawls, flipped up two with his thumb, and then selected the third one, a shawl of black, red, and gold. He held up the shawl, looked into the man’s eyes, and smiled gently. This one. I want to buy this one. Beside the shawl, he had extended his other hand, which held the coins and bills he had earlier shown.

The old man studied JJ, his bearing and his face, to understand his attitude. He found a man of sympathy and goodwill. He smiled and said, Fourteen rials.

JJ moved his left hand, holding the money closer to the man, and nodded to him to take the amount he had mentioned. The old man took two bills and four coins and laid them on the stack of shawls. Here, he said. Fourteen rials. Okay?

Okay, said JJ. Thank you. Thank you. He made a slight bow. The man bowed in return.

Ron also bowed and thanked the man then pulled open the door. That’s enough, JJ. Let’s go. We don’t want to be lugging a bunch of souvenirs around town.

The shopkeeper suddenly stepped forward. Wait! Here, take in bag. He took the shawl from JJ, folded it twice, and slipped it into a paper bag. He handed the bag to JJ. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He smiled and bowed again.

JJ smiled, bowed, and half turned toward the door. But then he stopped. He faced the old man, smiled again, and reached out his hand. The man hesitated then took JJ’s hand and shook it lightly. Thank you, JJ said, looking directly into the eyes of the dark little man. The man showed a hint of surprise then smiled as he held JJ’s hand for a small moment before releasing it.

They left the shop. As JJ closed the door, he said, What a neat old guy.

"Jesus, Frenchy. We came out here to see the town, not to become a trading partner."

I know, I know. But we also wanted to get a better feel for the people, remember? And I figured we’d have a better chance of actually talking to somebody if we were in his shop, especially if we were shopping. What was your plan? Just strike up a conversation with some friendly locals on the street? I thought that little visit worked really well, didn’t you?

What do you mean? That you got a good deal on a scarf you didn’t even want?

"Oh, come on, Ron! It wasn’t about the scarf. It was about the old man. It was about real contact with a local guy. And it was really cool. I think he liked us, you know? JJ now looked directly at Ron. We recognized his good taste in heroes. And we were cool—you know, not pushy—about getting the photo. And look at you … he bowed, you bowed. You crossed the dividing line to do things his way. Ron gave him a sour look. No, don’t give me that, Ron! You reached out. Right? Ron was looking down the street. Come on, own up. You did it, didn’t you? Say you did it!" By now, JJ was almost laughing.

Oh okay, Ron muttered. I did it. But just to be polite. It didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t trying to suck up to him or anything.

JJ laughed. God, sometimes you are just something else, Ron. JJ was still laughing. Here you are … you’ve just done a wonderful thing … small, but wonderful. You expanded your world, and now you’re trying to minimize it. He slapped Ron on the back, and they walked on down the street. You know, that old man is probably a lonely old guy, and now he’s wondering if maybe you’re actually one of his distant nephews. That was cool.

A few seconds later, Ron slowed, turned to his friend, and said, "You’re right. That old guy was a little creepy. At first. But by the time you worked him over, he was okay."

"He was more than okay, JJ said. He was a real sweetheart. That picture’s not for sale. It’s not part of his inventory. It’s part of his identity. He’s a fan."

A fan of the United States, you mean?

Well … JJ hesitated, thinking. Maybe not entirely. But definitely a fan of the United States he sees through his image of Kennedy. See … He’s now—just a little bit more, I grant you that—he’s now an international person.

At ten o’clock, they had walked nearly two miles west of the embassy compound and turned north, into a street with only a few small shops. By the time they passed the next corner, all commerce had disappeared, along with the sounds they had come to expect. Now it was quiet, but not really silent. Occasionally, one or both would turn to look to the side or behind them, trying to see who was whispering. They saw no one, and this not-quite stillness worked on them. They ambled on with no particular plan, turning at a corner or going straight ahead, depending on their whim. Sometimes it was a large doorway or an ornate gate that drew them this way or that, or maybe it was street width, or brightness, or even darkness.

They remembered what Charlie Webster had told them about the city. They could not expect to find ancient buildings—not houses, not churches, not anything because the city wasn’t founded until 1788. They thought maybe every city they could think of in the United States was older than Tehran. Even so, they had expected to find neighborhoods of small, possibly quaint, dwellings.

Mostly they saw walls—walls of one, two, and three-story buildings, even in residential areas. Others were freestanding walls of six, eight, and even ten feet, which they supposed contained courtyards, or maybe backyards, houses, and other buildings. They heard activity behind these walls—people talking, children shouting, laughing, and playing. Every now and then, they heard the sounds of hammering—metal on wood, metal on metal, or metal on stone. And always, the whispering, the murmuring.

They commented to themselves and to each other about what might be going on, such as cottage industry, a birthday party, children at play, laundry going on a clothesline, maybe. In the two hours since they’d left the main drag, they had seen only four automobiles on the road and a total of eight women, four pairs of them fully concealed, except for their eyes, by their black chadors and cloaks.

JJ looked at his watch. "Almost eleven. Let’s head back to the compound … or toward the compound … or at least back to the central district. Let’s find a taxi with an English-speaking driver."

So now you want to drive these streets instead of walk? asked Ron.

No, said JJ quietly in his own quiet, parental tone. "I want to see if we can find out where there’s a place without all these fucking walls hiding everything. And I want to see stuff, and I want somebody who can tell us about what we think we’re looking at."

Ron laughed. Okay … well, we’ve been going mostly west and north, right?

Yeah, pretty much.

Okay then. Let’s shoot straight south until we pick up a main street. We’ll locate a phone, check in, and then find your tour guide.

Sounds good.

For the next twenty minutes, they walked south, generally making several detours when their street dead-ended. It was near noontime when after a long eastward detour, they turned south again and into a narrow, dusty street that seemed to become more pinched with every step. The midday sun pressed down and burdened them. A hundred yards later, they began to encounter tiny shops that offered fruits, small furniture, knives, clothing, and even jewelry. They felt better for the presence of people and commerce, but they also felt worse from the dark looks coming at them. No one said a word, no one waved or nodded or saluted.

Here, said JJ, touching Ron’s elbow as he stopped and turned, pointing toward a table holding a case of glass teacups, a stack of flat bread, and a samovar from which steam and a spicy aroma escaped.

What? No, JJ. Come on! We’re not gonna have lunch here!

I know, I know. But don’t you think it would be friendly of us to at least look at stuff in some of these little places? Think about your friend with the shawls.

Ron looked at the table of goods. You’re right. But have you noticed that since we left the JFK shop, nobody has said ‘You buy?’ to us?

Yeah, you’re right. That’s not good.

No. Definitely not good.

No one appeared from inside to greet them or deal with them. They moved on, feeling worse. They also felt worse because as noon approached, they found themselves in heavier darkness as the streets became too narrow for vehicles. Additions to buildings jutted into their street. Balconies and cantilevered additions to second and third floors took away more and more of their sky.

In a quiet voice, JJ said, Know what this makes me think of, Cochise?

No, but I bet a dollar you’re gonna tell me.

Damn straight. Makes me think this might be just the kind of move those three guys made just before they disappeared for three months.

What three guys?

Come on, Ron, you know what three guys. The three jarheads who went missing in this very town for three months. Then they turned up … dead.

Oh yeah, I do remember … one in that canal, no arms or legs. One at the city dump and one in the river. Ron shook his head. Oh, and those guys also … no arms or legs.

Did they ever find those arms and legs?

Jesus, Frenchy, you are one sick son of a bitch, you know that?

Yeah, I know it. You know how I know it? Because you keep—

I know, Ron interrupted then muttered, for all the good it does.

Ron stopped walking and turned to JJ. Listen … that was two years ago, and a lot has changed here in the past two years. All the stuff the shah’s doing to bring this town—this whole country—into the modern world. You should talk with Charlie about it. They started walking again.

Four hours ago, they had begun the day as they had begun most of their other days in this city—in laughter and feelings of international goodwill. But in the past, along those busy commercial streets and tourist areas, they had felt very little lurking hostility. Now all they could hear was the murmur, the whisper. All they could feel was a vague sense of pressure, a muffled hostility toward them, the outsiders—meaning infidels.

Ahead of them, protruding structures of various forms, cans and boxes stacked to eight feet high, and laundry hanging in layers high above the street in the dark shade of the canyon added overhead weight to the darkness. This weight, now, along with the heat, had soaked their shirts in sweat.

JJ stopped and turned to Ron. Just what is the deal with all this heat! It’s hotter here in the shade than it was in the sun.

Ron nodded, wiping his face with a shirtsleeve. Unless it’s the pressure. You know about pressure and temperature, don’t you? Somebody’s law?

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Boyle’s law. But we’re not in a closed container … but it feels like it. This thing is getting to be more like a tunnel, said JJ. A ragged, dangerous tunnel … What do you think?"

I think we keep walking, Ron said quietly. Keep our cool. Keep our pace.

You know what I hear? Along with that whisper, … that hum? You know what I hear?

Yeah, I know … Okay then, no. What do you hear?

"Well, I have to tell you I feel it more than I hear it, but what I hear is somebody yelling, ‘Ambush!’"

Ron half stopped then continued walking, as he whispered, Yeah, yeah, I’m with you. I feel it too. But we can’t go back. We have to move on. Back there, they know we’re here … up ahead, they don’t. They walked a few steps in silence, and he continued, thinking aloud, See, we’ve left this wake behind us, but the waters up there are still calm. Back there, too many eyes watched … saw us. They’re already talking, making up questions. ‘Are you lost? Afraid? Vulnerable? Are you British, … or maybe you are American? Do you have money, watches, other stuff we can sell?’

Ambush! pressed on their minds, and they could feel it in their bodies, but they willed themselves not to show it.

They walked with deliberation, working hard to keep an easy gait, steady steps. Their eyes checked in with each other’s though their heads did not rotate a bit. They scanned automatically. They wanted to show they were not aimless, not sightseeing, and not fearful. So they kept a pace that showed no concern, haste, or desire to get out. They willed their body posture to say, We’re here to observe and Maybe we’ve been invited … maybe by someone of power.

Every now and then they looked around, the way, they hoped, the locals might look around, as though all this were familiar to them. They casually pointed out features to each other, especially things unusual to the setting, something possibly new to its location. They nodded their heads, smiled, sought to show anyone who’d notice that they were comfortable here.

At the same time, their eyes took stock of any detail that might suggest danger. They calculated threat levels, ambush probabilities, and cover and escape options. The air temperature was in the midnineties in their shady urban canyon, and they were still sweating, hoping their shirts didn’t show it. They kept up a casual chatter, muttered brief comments at any point of tactical importance.

Well, this morning was great, wasn’t it? JJ said conversationally.

Wonderful. Great people! I’m just certain that Akbar and you will maintain a peppy correspondence for years to come … Okay, small window, high on the left, ten yards ahead. No glass.

They walked on, ducked under a clothesline loaded with dark cloth—chadors, they guessed.

And would you just look at this now, said Ron, after walking just a few blocks, we’re a thousand miles away … a whole different country. Travel is so—

Satan! a cutting voice told them and all the neighbors that they were a pair of Satans. Voices now came at them from several directions. They fought the impulse to break into a run, just run and keep running until somehow they were back in a high-traffic area. They walked and kept up the small talk, making fun of their situation and the threat they felt. To check the rear, they would point to some object or feature of the