Early Thursday morning, Major Khan returned home to Tehran for leave and donned his sheep’s clothing. Sometimes he believed he was a sheep, but deep down inside, he knew he was a monster. Knowing what people do to monsters, he maintained an upstanding image in order to survive. At dawn, he said the Fajr prayer, the first of five that Muslims say each day.
Major Khan had breakfast with his wife, Daria; Mohammed, their eleven-year-old son; and Jasmeen, their nine-year-old daughter. His wife and children were excited that he was home. They ate nan flatbread with jam and feta cheese. After breakfast, they stayed at the table and talked.
“Where were you last week, Daddy?” Jasmeen asked.
“Working,” Major Khan said. It was true.
“Working where?” she persisted.
“Somewhere special—doing special work for Allah,” he said. Questions irritated him, but he’d learned the camouflage of patience.
Jasmeen soon lost interest in asking about his work and talked to her brother. Someday his daughter would learn like her brother and mother not to ask too many questions.
Major Khan’s wife was a pious woman who didn’t like violence, but she accepted his profession because of its necessity for Islam and Iran. She knew that much of her husband’s work for the Quds Force was secret, but she didn’t know he kept secrets within secrets. If she saw the full monster that I am, she’d surely want to leave me.
Major Khan’s cell phone rumbled. He answered it then listened for a moment before saying, “I’ll be right there.” Then he hung up.
“Do you have to go to work today?” Mohammed asked.
“I just have a few things to take care of.”
The boy frowned. “How can they call it leave when you still have a few things to take care of?”
“I got to eat breakfast with my family. And I’ll finish work early and be home for lunch.”
“Your father is an important man,” Daria said, defending him. “That’s why he’s so busy.”
“Will you play soccer with me after school?” Mohammed asked.
“Yes, I promise.” Major Khan kissed his children and wife before heading out the door. They truly seemed to love him, but his love for them was pretense. It had occurred to him that maybe their love was pretense, too.
He left his family and drove fifteen minutes to the Revolutionary Guard base and parked his car outside the Intelligence Division Detention Center. Inside, he checked in.
“The prisoner has been readied for you, sir,” the Guard said.
“Yes, I came as soon as I could.” Major Khan entered the interrogation room, where a young man with a swollen jaw sat on a chair with his hands tied and eyes blindfolded. In front of him was a small table with a baton on it.
“Good morning,” Major Khan said.
The boy said nothing, turning in the direction of his interrogator’s voice.
“I am told you’re a member of the so-called Arab Spring movement.”
“No,” the boy said. “I told everyone no, but they don’t listen.”
“I’m listening. People tell me I’m a good listener. Not like the barbarians who brought you here,” Khan said.
“Thank you.”
“Are you thirsty?” Khan asked.
“Yes.”
“Just a moment.” Major Khan stepped out of the room and returned with a cup of water. He placed it to the boy’s lips and poured slowly.
The boy drank until the cup was empty. “Thank you.”
“What is it that you’d like me to know?”
“Pardon?”
“You said that no one listens to you. I’m here for you—to listen.”
“I’m just a university student, and I don’t have anything to do with the Arab Spring. Three men burst through my door at night, sprayed tear gas in my face, bound me, blindfolded me, punched me, kicked me, and brought me here. They kept asking me about the Arab Spring, but I told them I don’t know anything. Then they hit me with a baton. I told them I don’t know anything, but they don’t believe me.”
“I believe you,” Khan said.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
The boy became silent for a moment. “Can I go?”
“Yes, just as soon as we finish.”
“Thank you.”
“I know how you feel,” Khan said, easing himself against the wall. “When I was your age, there was fierce competition in my neighborhood between religious sects. I was invited to convert from my sect to another—when I didn’t, someone told the authorities that I was a spy, and intelligence agents captured me and interrogated me.”
“How’d you get free?”
“My family had connections and eventually cleared my name. So you see, I do know how you feel.” Major Khan walked behind the boy and removed the boy’s shirt until it hung down from around his bound hands.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked.
“I’m making you more comfortable.”
“You don’t have to. I’m comfortable enough.”
“Oh, I listened to what you said, but you didn’t listen to what I said.”
“I was listening,” the teen said.
“Then you heard me say, ‘I know how you feel.’ I know you’re not comfortable.”
“But you’re not making me more comfortable.”
“But I am. You just don’t understand. I’m going to teach you how to feel comfortable.” With the boy’s shirt removed, Major Khan began removing the boy’s pants.
“No, please don’t.”
Now that the boy was nude, Major Khan picked him up out of his chair and leaned him over the table.
“You said you would let me go,” the boy said.
“I listened to you, but you weren’t listening to me. I said I’d let you go as soon as we finish. I haven’t finished teaching you what my interrogator taught me.” Major Khan unzipped his trousers.
“Oh, no. Please don’t. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m teaching you a tradition so you can pass it down to the next generation.” Major Khan dropped his undershorts. He didn’t care whether the boy was a member of the Arab Spring or not. Major Khan cared only about liberating his own monster.
The boy screamed.