“Lies, all lies,” Ibrahim had shouted at him. “Father was anti-Shah, a patriot - a Believer! Who were those dogs? Who? I will bum them and their fathers. What were their names?”
“It was the Will of God, Ibrahim, that they did it. Insha’Allah! Oh, my poor brother! The Will of God…” “There is no God!”
The others had stared at him, shocked. This was the first time Ibrahim had articulated a thought that had been building for many years, nurtured by student friends returning from overseas, friends at the university, fed by some of the teachers who had never said this openly, merely encouraging them to question anything and everything.
“Insha’Allah is for fools,” he had said, “a curse of superstition for fools to hide under!”
“You mustn’t say that, my son!” his mother had cried out, frightened. “Go to the mosque, beg God’s forgiveness - that your father is dead is the Will of God, nothing more. Go to the mosque.”
“I will,” he had said, but in his heart he knew his life had changed - no God could have allowed this to happen. “Who were those men, Uncle? Describe them.”
“They were just ordinary, Ibrahim, as I already told you, younger than you, most of them - there was no leader or mullah with them, though there was one in the foreigners’ helicopter that came from Bandar Delam. But my poor brother died cursing Khomeini; if only he hadn’t come back by the foreigners’ helicopters, if only… but then, Insha’Allah, they were waiting for him anyway.”
“There was a mullah in the helicopter?”
“Yes, yes, there was.”
“You will go to the mosque, Ibrahim?” his mother had asked him again. “Yes,” he had said, the first lie he had ever told her. It had taken him no time to find the university Tudeh leaders and Dimitri Yazernov, to swear allegiance, to get a machine gun, and, most of all, to ask them to find the name of the mullah in the helicopter of Bandar Delam. And now he stood there waiting, wanting vengeance, his soul crying out against the outrage committed against his father in the name of the false god. “Dimitri, let’s begin!” he said, his fury whipped by the shouting of the crowd. “We must wait, Ibrahim,” Rakoczy said gently, very pleased to have the youth with them. “Don’t forget the mob is a means to an end - remember the plan!” When he had told it to them an hour ago they had been tunned. “Raid the American embassy?”
“Yes,” he had said calmly, “a quick raid, in and out, tomorrow or the next day. Tonight the rally will become a mob. The embassy’s hardly a mile and a half away. It will be easy to send the mob rampaging that way as an experiment. What more perfect cover could we have for a raid than a riot? We let the enemy mujhadin and fedayeen go against Islamics and kill each other off while we take the initiative. Tonight we plant more seeds. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll raid the U.S. embassy.”
“But it’s impossible, Dimitri, impossible!”
“It’s easy. Just a raid, not an attempt at a takeover, that will come later. A raid will be unexpected, it’s simple to execute. You can easily grab the embassy for an hour, hold the ambassador and everyone captive for an hour or so while you sack it. Americans do not have the will to resist. That’s the key to them! Here are the plans of the buildings and the numbers of marines and I will be there to help. Your coup will be immense - it will hit world headlines and totally embarrass Bazargan and Khomeini, and even more the Americans. Don’t forget who the real enemy is and that now you have to act fast to grab the initiative from Khomeini. …”
It had been easy to convince them. It will be easy to create the diversion, he thought. And it’ll be easy to go straight to the CIA basement office and radio room, blow the safe, and empty it of all documents and cipher books, then up the back stairs to the second landing, turn left, into the third room on the left, the ambassador’s bedroom, to the safe behind the oil painting hanging over the bed, blow that and empty it similarly. Sudden, swift, and violent - if there’s any opposition.
“Dimitri! Look!”
Rakoczy spun around. Coming down the road were hundreds of youths - Green Bands and mullahs at the head. At once Rakoczy roared, “Death to Khomeini!” and fired a burst into the air. The suddenness of the shots whipped everyone into a frenzy, there were shouts and countershouts, simultaneously other guns went off all over the quadrangle, and everyone began to scatter, trampling over one another in their haste, the screams beginning. Before he could stop him, he saw Ibrahim aim at the oncoming Green Bands and fire. Some men in the front rank went down, a howl of rage burst from them, and guns opened up in their direction. He dived to the ground, cursing. The torrent of bullets missed him but got Farmad and others nearby but not Ibrahim and the remaining three Tudeh leaders. He shouted at them and they all hugged the cement as panic-stricken students opened up with carbines and pistols.
Many were wounded before the big mujhadin Rakoczy had marked for execution rallied his men around him and led a charge at the Islamics and drove them back. At once others came to his aid and the retreat became a rout, a roar went through the students, and the rally became a mob.
Rakoczy grabbed Ibrahim who was just about to charge off mindlessly. “Follow me!” he ordered, half shoved Ibrahim and the others farther into the lee of the building, then, when he was sure they were with him, took to his heels in a frantic, chest-hurting retreat.
At a junction of paths in the snow-covered gardens, he stopped a moment to catch his breath. The wind was chill and night on them now. “What about Farmad?” Ibrahim gasped. “He was wounded!”
“No,” he said, “he was dying. Come on!”
Again he led the rush unerringly through the garden, along the street near the scientific faculty, across the parking lot into the next, and he did not stop till the sound of the riot was distant. There was a stitch in his side and his breathing came in great pants, tearing at him. When he could speak, he said, “Don’t worry about anything. Go back to your homes or your dormitories. Get everyone ready for the raid, tomorrow or the next day - the committee will give the order.” He hurried away into the gathering night.
AT LOCHART’S APARTMENT: 7:30 P.M. Sharazad was lying in a foam bath, her head propped on a waterproof pillow, eyes closed, her hair tied up in a towel. “Oh, Azadeh, darling,” she said drowsily, perspiration beading her forehead, “I’m so happy.”
Azadeh was also in the bath and she lay with her head at the other end, enjoying the heat and the intimacy and the sweet perfumed water and the luxury - her long hair also up in a pure white towel - the bath large and deep and comfortable for two. But there were still dark rings under her eyes, and she could not shake off the terrors of yesterday at the roadblock or in the helicopter. Outside the curtains, night had come. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Neither paid it any attention.
“I wish Erikki would come back,” Azadeh said.
“He won’t be long, there’s lots of time, darling. Dinner’s not till nine, so we’ve almost two hours to get ready.” Sharazad opened her eyes and put her hand on Azadeh’s slender thighs, enjoying the touch of her. “Don’t worry, darling Azadeh, he’ll be back soon, your redheaded giant! And don’t forget I’m spending the night with my parents so you two can run naked together all night long! Enjoy our bath, be happy, and swoon when he returns.” They laughed together. “Everything’s wonderful now, you’re safe, we’re all safe, Iran’s safe - with the Help of God the Imam has conquered and Iran’s safe and free.”
“I wish I could believe it, I wish I could believe it as you do,” Azadeh said. “I can’t explain how terrible those people near the roadblock were - it was as though I was being choked by their hate. Why should they hate us - hate me and Erikki? What had we done to them? Nothing at all and yet they hated us.”