‘You are fighting them?’ Zeb reached for the jug of water on the table and filled everyone’s glasses.
‘I was an army soldier, rose to the rank of sergeant major.’ Zarhagi nodded in appreciation and emptied his drink in one gulp. ‘When Iraq invaded us, I was right in the middle … yes,’ he chuckled when Roger leaned forward with interest. ‘I’ve seen it all. The revolution, the Shah and his removal, the war, the two Supreme Leaders.’
‘The war,’ Bwana prompted him. History lessons could wait.
‘Yes, that. I saw some horrors then.’
‘What kind?’ Chloe shifted in her seat, keeping an eye on the door.
Zeb read her unease. We need to move, soon. Cops and soldiers might raid every place within a few miles to see if we are sheltering there.
‘Biological and chemical weapons,’ the old man sighed and rubbed his brows wearily. ‘Both sides used them. Mustard gas. Mortars filled with them. Our army deployed them on my unit. A mistake they called it and ordered us, those who survived, to keep quiet.’
A gasp in the room. Beth, who had turned pale. Meghan watched and listened stony-faced. Zeb scanned the other operatives and found no reaction on their faces. The admission wasn’t a surprise. There had been enough speculation that both countries had chemical weapons programs. All he’s done is confirm it.
‘You kept quiet too?’
Zarhagi smiled sadly at the accusatory tone in Beth’s voice.
‘No. I reported it to my superiors, kept bringing it up at every possible moment … I was suspended and then discharged dishonorably. I went to the local papers. The reporter was killed, the editor was threatened and I was beaten up. My pension was stopped. This was forty years ago. I struggled to get any work for some time. Did small jobs. Building. Handyman. Security guard. Kept my family fed, wife, daughter and son. I joined the underground protest movement. Went on marches. Life went on. The new Supreme Leader was appointed. Initially I was hopeful that he would be progressive, we would have some kind of democracy. Women would be respected. But things became worse. Quds became so powerful that they suppressed everything.’
‘You could have continued living like that, joining demonstrations,’ Bear refilled his glass and sipped water. ‘Those still happen. What changed?’
‘A Western journalist heard of me. I had become quite famous. A leader in the protest movement,’ he smiled deprecatingly. ‘I was in the military, I was used to command, the rebels looked to me for organizing events. A reporter from The Washington Post reached out. She wanted to interview me. In our initial discussions, I told her I would talk about my experience in the war, the chemical weapons, the brutality of Quds.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Carolina Nista. She covered the Middle East, had heard of me through a few sources she had developed in the activist movement.’
Zeb noticed Meghan lean back, her hands disappear beneath the table. He looked down to hide his smile.
She’s checking his story. Nista should be easy to find out about.
‘We set up a date for the interview. Night time, in a house in Elahiyeh. It was owned by one of the activist’s parents. They were rich and spent a lot of time in Europe. They didn’t know what their son did, how deeply involved he was in the movement. The interview started … this was three years ago. Seven of us in the room. I along with two activists one of whom was that boy, Carolina and her team.’
His fingers caressed the table’s surface absently, feeling the grain, the polish.
‘We got surprise visitors. Quds. They captured us and took us to some facility. I don’t remember much of it. I was unconscious for most of the time from the beating and the torture.’
‘Is that when that happened?’ Zeb pointed at his fingers. He didn’t ask for details of what went on during the capture. If he wants to talk of the torture, he’ll tell us himself.
‘Yes,’ he spread them out on the table. ‘And what I showed you in the bathroom. Other scars,’ he clarified when Chloe shot a puzzled look.
‘They threw me and the protesters’ bodies in the Jajrood River. They thought they had killed us. My friends were dead, but I was alive. Barely. A fisherman found me on the bank, took me home and nursed me back to health. I never told him my name, made him promise never to mention he had found me. For his own safety.’
‘He must have had questions.’
‘Yes. I told him Quds and that was enough for him. He didn’t ask for any more details.’
‘It was a week later I returned to Tehran. I found the world had changed. My world.’
Zarhagi’s voice was emotionless as he recounted his experience. Only his sad expression and wise eyes gave a hint of what he had been through.
‘Carolina Nista and her entire crew had been killed in a traffic accident. Yes,’ he smiled bitterly at Beth’s indrawn breath. ‘That’s how the press reported it. Oh, Quds covered it up very well. There were photographs of the crash, of the bodies, a detailed police investigation. A drunk truck driver who had lost control of his vehicle and had smashed into the reporter’s car. No survivors. They faked witness reports, people, whom I am sure were paid to say that. Other newspapers interviewed the police, those witnesses, the story held. Why wouldn’t it? Quds is highly efficient. The Washington Post ran an obituary which was covered in the English papers here. I thought of calling them, the Post, but,’ he shrugged, ‘what good would it do? Besides, I was a lost man myself.’
Zeb sensed it coming before Zarhagi articulated the words.
‘Quds had killed my family.’
He bowed gracefully when Beth clasped his hand.
‘It wasn’t a quick death,’ Zeb guessed after a moment of respectful quiet.
‘No. They … did things to my wife. Made my children watch and then executed them. Neighbors were made to watch. It was a message to everyone.’
‘From then onwards, I have lived in that place on Fereydoun. Its owner died a long time ago. The father of an activist. I help rebels organize, strategies, tactics. For some reason,’ he smiled thinly, ‘they think I am their leader. I help Firdaus, Naeem, a few others with security matters. They are all related to protesters in some way. They know what happened to me. They pay me for whatever service I perform, feed me. I wait for death,’ he said simply, ‘and until that happens, will do what I can.’
Zeb stared blindly at the table. He had heard similar stories on his missions. There was always a Reza Zarhagi wherever there were oppressive governments.
It’s true, Meghan mouthed at him over the table.
He nodded and turned to the survivor. ‘Firdaus is your nephew?’
‘No. He calls me that because he thinks I am someone to admire. Foolish boy.’ He smiled absently.
‘Don’t the police recognize you?’
‘Three years is a long time. They have forgotten what I look like. Remember, everyone thinks I am dead. I have a phone,’ he fished out an old-style one which had a small screen and a keypad and nothing else. ‘I am not into social media, what all the young people are into. I am not in any official records; my name does not come up anywhere. The restaurant owners and everyone who pays me, do so in cash. Even Quds soldiers pass me on the street and don’t recognize me. Even if they did,’ he smiled mirthlessly, ‘what more could they do to me?’
Can’t argue with that.
‘What about you?’ Zarhagi smiled at them ‘You have heard my life story. Who are you? Why is Mostofi after you?’
‘I don’t want to lie to you,’ Zeb confessed.
‘Which means you won’t tell me anything,’ the old man chuckled. ‘My own safety. I know.’ He surveyed each one of them individually, his eyes lingering on the twins, Chloe and Bwana. ‘There are some rumors that Quds is hunting a group of Mossad killers.’
None of the operatives reacted.
‘I think Mostofi’s got it wrong,’ Zarhagi smiled and this time his eyes were dancing. ‘He doesn’t know those people are Americans.’
Zeb and his crew didn’t acknowledge his guess.
‘I can help,’ the activist offered. ‘Our network is extensive. We have informers in the police, a few in the military, hospitals, newspapers, universities, everywhere.’
‘Can we give you a number? You can let us know what the police are doing about these Mossad operatives,’ Beth asked him
Zarhagi slid his device across the table and inspected the contact details when she returned it.
‘Nargess,’ he read the name. ‘Your phone is traceable?’
‘No. You’ll have to come up with some story about who I am if you are questioned.’
‘Yes. If it comes to that, someone in my network will spread it on social media. You will know I have been killed,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Yes,’ Zeb said when Meghan looked at her watch pointedly. ‘We should leave.’
‘Go that way,’ Zarhagi jerked his head at the air conditioner. ‘It will be safer.’
He circled the table and pressure pressed the wall in a complicated maneuver, a code. An audible click, at which he pulled a large panel inwards.
Zeb peered out. An alley, walls on either side, roof on top. A faint light in the distance.
‘Right side is a garage that Naeem is friendly with,’ Zarhagi commented over his shoulder. ‘Left side is the restaurant’s kitchen. It opens in a garbage area. Naeem has cameras there. He monitors their feeds and would have warned us if it wasn’t safe. It’s where the city’s trash is dumped, for recollection by the authorities. No one goes there, not voluntarily.’
Zeb straightened when a thought struck him.
‘Mostofi. You mentioned him several times.’
Zarhagi held up his hands. ‘I know him well. How can I forget the man who pulled out my nails, cut my stomach, pulled out my intestine and waited for me to die.’