I Am Woman:
The Dani Affair
By Tom Peashey
Copyright © 2011 Tom Peashey
Published in Rochester, New York, U.S.A.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1466250529
ISBN-13: 978-1466250529
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is a work of fiction. Incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. With the exception of Ameneh Bahrami, Ayatollah Khomeini, Presidents George Bush and Barack Obama, and Michelle Obama any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Reference to the Ayatollah’s legalizing transgender surgery in Iran in 1987 is fact. It should be noted that the Iranian Government’s chosen methods of execution include hanging, stoning and firing squad. While often used elsewhere in the Middle East both officially and unofficially, beheading would not normally be used by the Iranian Government.
We would like to thank photojournalist, Don Paluh for his invaluable assistance in formatting this work and creating the cover design.
DEDICATION
Dedicated to Ameneh Bahrami. Following terrible facial disfigurement and total blinding at the hands of a stalker, she remained strong and determined to protect the rights of women. She demanded an appropriate Qesas – an eye for an eye. In the end, her Qesas went unfulfilled, but her struggle for the equality of women in the Middle East – especially Iran – in education, business and law is inspirational. Her story planted the seed for this novel. Many months ago, by coincidence, we chose Tehran’s Evin Prison as a setting for this novel. We would also like to make special mention of the three American hikers who were captured on the Iran/Iraq border in 2009. They were imprisoned for no reason other than the fact that they were Americans. Sarah Shourd was released from Evin Prison in 2010 and her friends, Joshua Fattal and Shane Bauer were finally released in September of 2011. Their descriptions of life in Evin Prison have confirmed our depiction of conditions there. We wish them well as they resume their life and hope that their confinement will convince the world that atrocities such as this will not and must not be tolerated. Iran must respect the dignity and rights of all individuals.
CHAPTER 1
WELCOME TO AMNESTY FOR ALL
I woke up that morning exhilarated and eager to begin my career. Just a few weeks ago, I’d been awarded my master’s degree from Princeton University in world studies and government. I was ready to challenge life. Two months earlier, I had been interviewed on campus by corporate recruiters at a job fair. I was looking for something to start my career that would immediately put me in a position to “make a difference.”
Born and raised in New York City, I was enthralled with how so many cultures melded into one in the big apple. I studied hard, graduated Summa Cum Laude, and spoke fluent French and Spanish besides my native English. (Or maybe I should call it New York-eze, as most would recognize my hometown after only a few words). I’d also begun studying both Arabic and Farsi (Iranian/Persian), but was still far from fluent. Yet.
With my majors and linguistics, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that I caught the attention of some interesting companies – including The Company. I was asked to interview with the CIA, The US State Department, and Amnesty for All, as well as a number of large multinational corporations – but I had no desire whatsoever to join the Corporate America Rat Race.
For the past few years, I had hoped to eventually get a law degree and enter politics. The interview with both the CIA and the State Department were quite interesting. If I had been in college during Vietnam, I’m quite sure I would have been a happy hippy, out in the streets protesting one thing or another. I even sported my golden blond hair below my shoulders; I usually kept it in a pony tail. This streak of liberalism kept me from accepting either of the Government’s offers. Yes … they both offered me jobs.
Amnesty for All, on the other hand, I found quite intriguing. They offered an entry-level job with a paycheck that sucked, but a promise to make a difference in the world by helping to stamp out oppression, war, and hate. Wow, how could I do better than that? And besides, my mother was one of the top real estate agents in Manhattan. Money was not a problem.
Their offer would keep me headquartered in Manhattan while giving me lots of opportunity to travel the world in my search to make a difference. So I accepted.
On June 1, 2005, I started my new job as an assistant investigator with Amnesty for All. The next two months were full of training sessions and an almost brainwashing caution about how brutal the world could really be. Trusting others, I was taught, could be dangerous. Most of all, when in Third-World countries, we must always travel as a team and follow the lead of our senior partners.
I seemed to have passed the course: one day in the first week of August, Larry Carmichael, my boss, told me that I should keep a bag packed at all times and be ready to leave on a moment’s notice.
He also handed me a Swiss passport.
I looked at it and said, “What’s this? I’m American.”
Larry smiled, “Dan, being an American in this job may often not be the best. We aren’t exactly liked in most Third-World countries. Further, AFA’s arrival in a country is generally not welcomed. After all, you’re there to tell them they’re bastards and blow the whistle on them to the entire world. All employees are required to carry both their home-country passport and a diplomatic passport provided by the Swiss government. The Swiss work very close with us. You’ll figure out real soon which one to use when.”
This made my week, and that night, I did as requested. My bag was packed.
That Saturday morning, I was about to leave the Upper East Side apartment that my mom had found for me – she was helping me pay the rent – I could never have afforded it by myself.
I was off to run in Central Park. I laughed, knowing that I must look like the classic New York yuppie: five-foot-nine, 158 pounds, with long blond hair, designer running clothes, $300 sneakers, and a fanny pack to hold my digital music and Smartphone. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave home without it.
After about thirty minutes of running, I’d worked up a good sweat and stopped to buy a bottle of water from one of the army of vendors around Central Park. Suddenly, I heard the overture from Les Miserables – my chosen ringtone for work. (What better for a revolutionary like me?)
I answered as soon as I could unzip the pack and get it out: “Dan Roberts.”
“Dan, its Larry. Did you pack that bag like I told you to?”
“Of course, Larry – it’s done.”
“Ok. Stop running, go take a quick shower, and meet me at the office. I’m taking you to Geneva with me.”
How the hell did he know I was running? Oh well, no matter. “Yes, sir. I can be there in two hours.”
“Make it ninety minutes. We have a 3:00 p.m. flight. Don’t forget to travel light. We’ll be gone only a week, but it’s better to use hotel laundries than to check baggage.”
“Carryon only. Got it. See you in ninety minutes.”
“Good, get moving.”
Larry sure hadn’t wasted any time getting me out of the office. I was relieved to be traveling with him. I wondered who else was coming. I’d been told that we usually used three-person teams of investigators. There would generally be an experienced team leader (in this case, Larry); an experienced agent who had not yet been promoted to team leader (I was guessing, it will be George Lortz, since I’d been told that he worked with Larry often); and the third person would be a grunt – a rookie who was told to shut up and do whatever either of the other guys told him to do.
The third person was me. I’d be the chief grunt for the week.
As I ran home, I quickly called Mom’s cell.
“Yes, Dan. What’s up?”
I told her about the assignment.
“Wow, I didn’t think they’d send you out in the world that fast. Where are you going? I doubt you’ll find too many being tortured in Switzerland.”
“Mom, you’re a nut. I assume we’ll be briefed on the assignment at headquarters in Geneva and then move from there. It can’t be too far, though – Larry said we’d only be gone a week.”
“Daniel, I’m not very happy about this. You can’t possibly have had enough training to run off to some Godforsaken place and piss them off. You sure this job is for you?”
“Will you stop with the worrying? This is a great opportunity and a chance to really make a difference in the world. No one will screw with us. The organization has amazing power. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, just remember, I am against you doing anything this dangerous. Why couldn’t you have just been a doctor or a lawyer? Be careful. Stay on the alert at all times, and for heaven’s sake; keep it in your pants. I love you. Have a safe trip.”
“Mother, you are so crude. Must be why I love you so much. See you in a week.”
CHAPTER 2
OFF TO GENEVA
As my taxi pulled up to our office – just down the street from the UN Building – I saw Larry and George waiting in front of the building for me. Good guess on my part.
Larry said, “Hold that cab, Dan.”
They both gave the driver their bags and jumped into the cab with me.
Larry told the driver, “JFK Swiss Air. Please hurry – we have a 3:00 p.m. international flight.”
George smiled and said, “Hi rookie. I hope this is the last time that you are the last member of the team to show up.”
“Got it. Won’t happen again. It was the uptown traffic.”
Larry smiled and said, “Easy does it, George. The poor kid was jogging in Central Park when I called him. That was only ninety minutes ago. For our sake on the plane, I hope he took a shower. Give the rookie a break…he’s probably scared shitless. If not, he should be.”
In the car, Larry handed us both folders. “On the plane, you guys can familiarize yourself with the case. We’ll have a brief meeting at headquarters, and then catch a flight to Tehran.”
I glanced at the folder quickly and couldn’t help sounding excited, “Holy shit! My first field assignment and we’re off to Iran where no Americans can go?”
George looked at me with a stern face. “Don’t sound so happy about it. There are good reasons why Americans don’t go there. As a matter of fact, Larry, why the hell are they sending an American team? Aren’t the Brits available? Or even the Frogs?”
I laughed at George calling the French, “Frogs,” but he had brought up a good question.
With an assuring tone, Larry simply said, “Ours is to follow orders. They say go, we go. Who knows why they chose us?”
The cab pulled up to the Swiss Air terminal at JFK. We got the full VIP treatment from Swiss Air and flew first class. Larry and George were next to each other, and I was across the aisle. Even with Mom’s money, I rarely had dared to treat myself to that kind of luxury. The seat was better than anything I had at home. I even accepted a complimentary cocktail offered by the stewardess while they were filling the rest of the plane. Once we took off, I opened my folder and began to read about the case.
I was shocked – it was a case I knew about. There was even a copy of the Reuters story from the New York Times that I had just read. It told of a young woman in Tehran, Ameneh Bahrami, who three years earlier refused the advances of another student. That man, Majid Salehi, pretty much turned into a stalker. He pursued her constantly. She demanded that he leave her alone. One day, he came up to her and threw a bucket of acid in her face.
There was an eight-by-ten glossy of her in the folder: What a mess. Blinded in both eyes and her entire face scarred for life. Over the months, the Iranian government, having been embarrassed by the event, actually arrested the stalker. In the meantime, the government paid for her to fly to Europe and receive medical care. They almost saved one eye, but in the end, they failed, so she was completely blind – and still horribly scarred.
As a modern woman in Iran, and an educated engineer, Ameneh was determined to make an example of this man who wanted to be her husband, but whom she had never really met. It had taken some time for Salehi’s case to come to trial while they worked trying to save Ameneh’s eyes. They’d postponed the trial until the doctors had been forced to declare her totally blind and give up.
They turned the case over to the highly conservative and often brutal Sharia Law Court. Salehi’s life was in the hands of five imams who had been appointed by the religious authority, the supreme Ayatollah, to administer Sharia Law. In a short trial, he’d been found guilty.
Ameneh Bahrami refused to give up on her quest to make an example of the man who had blinded and disfigured her. She was determined that he was not going to be allowed to accept a lesser punishment. She’d invoked an ancient part of Sharia Law called the Code of Qesas. In my folder, I found a document explaining the code. It seemed to be, quite simply, “An eye for an eye.”
In keeping with Ameneh’s Qesas request, since Salehi had blinded her, his sentence was that she would be allowed to drop five drops of sulfuric acid into each of his eyes. This would completely blind him for life.
We were acting on this brutality now because the news reports claimed that implementation of the sentence was “imminent.”
Larry leaned over, “You through all that?”
“Just about. Amazing how something like this could exist in the twenty-first century.”
George added, “Well, they claim it’s okay because they’ve modernized. He’ll be under full anesthesia in a hospital when she does it. That – they think – makes it okay. Damn fools. Still living in the Middle Ages. I’m sure they would rather take him to a public square and have her throw acid at him the way he did at her. Of course, with her being blind, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her when she’s throwing the acid.”
Larry comments, “You both should know that one of the reasons we’re sending a full team is that this acid throwing by a man at a woman is becoming all too common. There are hundreds of cases a year in the Middle East. Most never even reach trial. After all, they’re only women. We will have our hands full with this one. We always do, when they hide torture behind religion. Get some sleep. We’ll have a quick briefing with the boss at headquarters, and then fly straight to Tehran. No hotel for us in Geneva.”
Well, I had to admit, this was an interesting case for my first time out of the office. It was also my first time to the Middle East except for a day excursion to the pyramids while Mom was taking my sister, Kathy and I on a Mediterranean cruise. I didn’t think eight hours on an air-conditioned bus driving around in the desert looking at pyramids counted as Middle Eastern experience.
The stewardess came on the PA system and said in English, French, and German, “Ladies and gentlemen. We will soon begin our decent into Geneva. We will be coming around with International Customs forms. Everyone will have to fill one out and have it with you when you go through customs. We should be at the terminal in forty-five minutes.”
The time went by fast. The stewardess started to hand me a form. I reached for it, and Larry stopped me, “Just show her your Swiss diplomatic passport. You don’t need to fill that out.” I reached in, pulled out my brown Swiss passport, and showed it to her. She smiled and moved on to someone else. I decided that I could get used to all this special treatment.
First Class was the first to deplane. We went straight into the terminal, wheeling our carryon bags. When we got to customs, Larry said, “Follow me.” He led us to the last counter under a sign that read, DIPLOMATS.
“Give me your Swiss passport.”
George had already given him his. Larry called the inspector by first name. The inspector recorded all three passports and said, “Welcome back, Larry. Have a good visit.”
With that, he handed Larry back all three passports, and we were allowed to pass with our briefcases and carryon bag – no questions asked.
Larry looked at me and smiled, “Don’t get spoiled. It’s not always that easy. Remember, when entering many countries, we will be considered to be nosey, unwanted intruders. It won’t be that easy. The Swiss love us.”
I saw a man wave at Larry. We went straight to him. In French, Larry said, “Hello Jean, how goes it?”
“All’s well, my friend. Hi, George. Got a newbie with you?”
Larry looked at me and said, “Dan Roberts, meet Jean Martin, assistant director of AFA.”
“Nice to meet you, young man. Welcome to beautiful Switzerland. We must hurry; the director is waiting for us.”
Larry and Jean talked in French, and it only took twenty minutes to get to our headquarters building. I trailed behind Jean, Larry, and George as we moved swiftly through the office complex. Workers seated at their desks often looked up and waved to Larry and George. They had both been with AFA for some time and had worked with many of these people.
Then I realized that all these people were working on a Sunday. There was a lot of dedication to their cause. Jean brought us into a conference room, and seated already was AFA executive director Andres Philliponi.
He stood and moved directly to me. “You must be our new, young recruit. Welcome to the organization, Mr. Roberts. They tell me you are intent on making a difference in the world. Your academics and language skills are excellent.”
“Yes sir. But it’s just Dan to you, Sir.”
“Okay – Dan it is. Let’s get started. Gentlemen, you only have a few minutes before leaving for Tehran. I’m sure you are all briefed on the situation. This throwing acid at women stuff has to cease. That will only happen when the authorities are forced or embarrassed into arresting and finding hard punishment for the perpetrators. Unfortunately, they have gone too far here. We must stop the countries of the world from turning appropriate punishment for a crime into brutal, sadistic torture.”
Larry spoke up, “I couldn’t agree more, Andres. Do you have any suggestions on where to start?”
“Yes. I will forward an email to the Iranian Department of State, telling them I am sending in a three-man team to observe their penal system. They will know right away what I’m referring to. You can expect no help from them. I will be pleased if you are allowed to enter the country.”
Larry mused, “The bastards wouldn’t dare refuse us entry. They know they would stir one big pot of crap for that – especially at the UN.”
“Perhaps, but still, be prepared for no cooperation. Insiders have told me that the conservative zealots, to hide their atrocities, are using the Tehran Judiciary Hospital. They think it’s okay to chop off a man’s right hand for stealing a loaf of bread if a doctor anesthetizes the criminal while the brutality is done, and then sews up his arm and keeps him from bleeding to death, after.”
“Rather than spin your wheels looking for this guy to ensure they have not blinded him, I suggest you go straight to the hospital. Check it out. Our sources say that one of the administrators there is Christian and is being forced to work with the court. If you can figure out which one he is, you may find a valuable source of information. If that fails, you guys know what to do: go to the police, and do everything you can to pester them into allowing you to see this guy. What was his name?”
I perked up, and wanting to show that I was on top of things, I told him, “That would be Majid Salehi, Sir.”
“Thanks, Dan. Good luck on your first assignment. If you leave now, you can grab something to eat on the way to the airport.”
We said quick and appropriate goodbyes and headed back to the airport. When he shook my hand, Mr. Philliponi leaned towards my ear and said, “Don’t be nervous, Dan. You’ll do fine.”
CHAPTER 3
LOOKING FOR SALEHI
We landed in Tehran late Sunday night. We used our Swiss passports and went to the diplomatic inspector. This time, we were asked the nature of our business and where we were staying. Larry just told them that this was a normal meeting with their State Department to review some cases. To my surprise, they let us in with no further inspection.
Larry hailed a cab and gave the driver the hotel name. In English, he said, “Laleh International Hotel, please.” Twenty minutes later, we arrived, and the doorman opened the cab doors. The three rooms were ready for us; I realized that AFA must have an excellent travel department. Larry was given all three keys.
As he handed them to us, he said, “Let’s get some sleep. Meet right here for breakfast at 8:00 a.m., and then we’ll go straight to the Judiciary Hospital.”
We were too tired for complicated goodbyes. We just headed for the elevators to our rooms. All were on the same floor, and we came to mine first. “Good night gentlemen. Thanks for babysitting me.”
They both laughed and moved on to their rooms.
Boy did I sleep. Fortunately, the hotel was very nice.
I chose to use the hotel’s alarm clock rather than rely on a wakeup call. At 7:00 a.m., I was awakened by the nasty alarm and almost threw it across the room. I shaved, showered, dressed, and arrived in the lobby right on time. George and Larry were standing, waiting for me.
George said, “Third again.”
I replied, “Hey, it’s not 8:00 a.m. yet.”
Larry saved me again, “You’re fine and on time – can’t ask for more. Let’s get some food. I need coffee.”
An hour later, we were hailing a cab.
“Tehran Judiciary Hospital, please.”
The driver didn’t quite follow what Larry had said.
I repeated it in Farsi, adding the address, 100 Dr. Kenobi Drive.
The driver waved and drove ahead.
George smiled and said, “Maybe you will be handy to have around. Where’d you get the address?”
“Even Tehran has phone books.” I smiled in satisfaction.
A little while later, we arrived at the main entrance to the hospital. It was large and fairly impressive. Before the Ayatollah in 1979, The Shah had turned Tehran into a modern city – more Western than any other in the Middle East – even Riyadh. This hospital must have been part of that modernization.
We went to the desk and asked to see the chief administrator.
In English, the girl behind the desk replied, “Do you have an appointment?”
Larry gave her his business card and said, “No, we just arrived from Geneva. It’s important that we speak to him.”
She looked at the card and asked, “Please take a seat. I will call and let him know you are here.”
We sat for almost an hour. Larry said, “This isn’t good.” He got up and walked over to the desk.
The girl looked up, “I’m sorry sir. He must be in surgery.”
“Is there anyone else who could talk to us about an important patient?”
“Perhaps the assistant administrator – I’ll call him.”
Larry motioned for me to come over to the desk. “Eavesdrop on what she‘s saying.”
I translated as best I could.
“They are getting impatient, Doctor,” the girl said. “What shall I tell them? … But they won’t go away… Got it. They can sit here all day if they wish.”
She turned to us and said dutifully, “No one is available right now, but you’re welcome to wait.”
I spoke to her in Farsi.
George came over, “What did you say to her?”
“I told her to tell whoever just told her to let us sit here all day that Amnesty for All is not an agency you wish to screw with. Understand?”
Larry and George both smiled. Larry said, “I think you’re going to work out rookie.”
She went back on the phone and pretty much told them what I said. Without saying anything I could understand, she turned, and said, “Honestly, none of them will meet with you today. You might as well leave.”
We huddled, and Larry said, “Ok, Plan B in effect. I have a contact in the Tehran Police Department. I’ll go try and find him.”
“I think I know someone in the State Department.” George said, “Then, I’ll check in at the Swiss Embassy.”
I laughed and said, “I don’t know anybody. What should I do?” George said, “Tag along with me. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
We split up and went our merry way. The girl behind the desk seemed quite relieved to see us depart. We got lucky and were able to hail two cabs and headed off in two different directions. George and I had absolutely no luck finding anyone at the Iranian State Department. You would have thought we were lepers.
At least we were welcomed at the Swiss Embassy as old friends. We told the attaché who greeted us what we were doing.
He gave George a name at the Sharia Judiciary. The attaché said, “He’s in charge. He speaks English, but he is as conservative as they come. He is just to the right of Bin Laden. I wish you luck. You’ll need it.”
It was too late to go anywhere now. We went straight back to the hotel and rang Larry’s room. He’s not back yet. George pulled out his cell and called him. “Yes Larry, we’re finished. Really didn’t get far, but we do have the name of the Sharia Judiciary guy responsible for all this. Okay will do.”
“It’s 5:30 p.m., Dan. He says to relax for a bit and meet at the hotel restaurant at seven-thirty. We’ll figure out what we’re doing tomorrow, then.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was suffering from jet lag and couldn’t figure out whether my body was coming or going. “Okay George, see you then.”
With that we both headed for our rooms. At 7:30 p.m. we all headed for the elevator at the same time. George said, “At least you weren’t last Dan.” Larry laughed and said, “You’re too much George. Cut the kid some slack.”
We had a fairly unique dinner. Not really sure what I ate, but it was very good and very expensive. I was glad AFA had deep pockets.
It turned out that Larry had no more luck than I. His police buddy did try and locate Majid Salehi in the system, but they must have been keeping him separate from the normal prisoners.
Larry said, “He’s probably in a shithole called Evin Prison. It’s in the northwest part of town. That’s where the Sharia Law judges send everyone. It’s worse than Abu Ghraib in Baghdad. My guy said the prisoners there are so bored they train the rats to play like dogs. The cells are dark, wet, and dingy, with no running water and a hole in the floor for a toilet. It’s a good thing the Sharia Judiciary likes a speedy trial, or all their prisoners would die of starvation or dysentery.”
We decided that the next day, George and Larry would try for the Sharia judge whose name we were given, and that I should go alone back to the hospital and see if there was anyone I could charm into speaking with me.
Larry gave me some direction, “Look, you will be alone. Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous. Just nose around the hospital and see if anyone will talk. At least you can approach them in Farsi. Alone, you have a much better chance. The three of us together just scares everyone off. Be particularly alert for that Christian administrator we were told about. Him, I want to have a long talk to about his Hippocratic Oath. After you give up, call me on my cell.”
With that, we finished eating, and I went straight to my room. If I’m going to be globetrotting like this, I thought, I better learn how to handle the time differences better.
Suddenly it was 7:30 a.m., and that damn, loud alarm was going off. I decided to just get ready, grab a cup of coffee, and head out for the day. I was hoping that catching hospital workers early might help my success.
The cab dropped me again at the main entrance. I spent the next four hours schmoozing up to anyone that came by. I can’t say as I had much success, but I did get the impression from one young intern that Salehi had definitely been at the hospital. He was far too familiar with the case. He knew about the intended punishment, but clammed up when I tried to talk about it.
Despite the fact that most Iranian women still covered their heads and faces, I was quite taken with the ones who walked by. Strange as it may seem, the tease of the covered face on top of some pretty modern, professional work wardrobe was actually making me think about something other than my mission.
Finally, it was the many eyes – impeccably made up as if they were at a fashion show in Paris – that were becoming most interesting.
I shook myself back to reality and called the boss.
“Larry, it’s noon, and I really have been totally unsuccessful.”
I told him what little I had been able to learn from the young intern.
“What should I do now? If I stay here any longer asking questions, I fear I’ll be meeting your police friend.”
“You’re probably right. We’re making some progress here with the Sharia Law people. We’ve witnessed some very interesting trials and may still get an audience with the Old Man. This guy is a real piece of work. Tell you what…stay out of trouble and go sightseeing. Call me again after supper, and we’ll decide what we’re doing tomorrow. Have fun, and keep it in your pants.”
What? Again? Does he know my mother?
“Okay, Larry. Talk to you tonight.”
CHAPTER 4
SURI ENTERS MY LIFE
Instead of flagging a cab, I decided that, since I had time on my hands, I would just jump on a local bus. Hopefully I had enough funny money on me. Larry had given us each some to use if necessary. When he gave it to me, he said, “Plastic still rules most everywhere, but you now have some cash if you get stuck.”
I was rather enjoying the view of Tehran. It was an interesting place: for blocks it would seem like a modern city, and then there would be something that looked like it had jumped out of the ancient history books. It made sense; after all, the city was thousands of years old, and not far from what most agreed was the cradle of civilization. How ironic, I thought, I’m here seeking out inhumane things near the place where it all began.
The bus was close to my hotel and stopped alongside a beautiful park. On a whim, I jumped off the bus and walked into the park. For a long time, I just sat in a quiet place and watched the birds begging for food.
A rather small woman in traditional garb came near me and began feeding the birds. She seemed slim even through her robe.
I got my phone out, went towards her, and in the best Farsi I could muster, asked, “May I take your picture feeding the birds?”
She backed off a bit and kind of sized me up. The next thing I knew, she was nodding. She continued feeding the birds, and I took several pictures.
I picked out the best one and held the camera up for her to see. She moved closer, and I got a good look at her eyes. The makeup was quite alluring. The eyes were captivating. I was most surprised when she reached up and uncovered her face.
Her beauty took my breath away. It was impeccably accented by the perfectly applied makeup.
In excellent English, she asked, “Are you from England?”
“No, I’m American.”
“How did you know I spoke English?”
“Well, you certainly can’t speak Farsi, and it was a good guess.”
We both had a good laugh on me.
I held out my hand to her. “I’m Dan Roberts from New York. It is my pleasure to meet such a beautiful person in this place so far from home.”
She seemed to hesitate, but then took my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone from so far away. May I ask what it’s like in New York? Come over to the bench, and let’s sit for a bit if you wish.”
“Of course.”
We walked to the nearest bench to sit. With that, she very quickly opened her burka. Took it off, folded it carefully, and put it in a bag she was carrying. She sat next to me in a short skirt and blouse that any girl in New York would kill for. She was even wearing high-heeled shoes. It was as if my guardian angel had suddenly appeared and sat beside me.
Fresh out of college, I had the opportunity to date many beautiful women over the last few years, but this girl was different. I can’t believe how captivated I am. Perhaps it was the shock of her suddenly transforming from conservative Moslem woman to a glamorous European beauty.
She must have realized I was staring at her. Smiling so sweetly that my pulse went up to at least 100 beats a minute, she said, “My name is Suri, Dan. It really is a special day that I get to speak with an American.”
“I have to ask – won’t you get in trouble uncovering yourself?”
“No, there are just enough Christians here mixed in with the tourists that most take no notice of a girl in Western dress.”
“Well, I’m taking notice.”
I couldn’t believe I’d said that. What was I, a high school kid in heat?
She smiled and politely ignored my rather crude remark.
“It gives me much pleasure to study European and American culture. I have worked hard on my linguistics.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“My French is adequate also. I hope that my languages will help me find a job that will take me away from here – perhaps in government service.”
I spent the next several hours telling her about New York and answering a seemingly endless amount of questions.
“I have dreamed of being a translator at the UN in New York. How exciting a place New York would be.”
“Suri, I have to ask, would your family approve of your dressing like this? Do they know you like to wear western dress and explore your beauty?”
“Mother taught me how to use makeup. She is very beautiful herself, but my father is a very conservative person. He would never approve if he saw me like this. He believes he owns Mother and I. Mother is a slave to him. She lives in constant fear of him. I could never live like that. I see it as practice for when I get a job in Paris or New York.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Your father must be very difficult to live with.”
“You’ll never know how difficult.”
As our conversation finally wound down, I could not believe I had spent all that time sitting in the park. I would have to make up a story for the guys as to what sightseeing I had done.
Then I got brave. “Suri, you’re delightful, and it has been a wonderful afternoon. May I take you to dinner?”
“I would like that. Is your hotel nearby?”
“Yes, just across the street.”
“As much as I would like dinner with you, there’s something more I desire.”
With that, this beautiful piece of womanhood laid her right hand against my cheek, leaned in, and planted a great kiss directly on my lips. I responded appropriately as instinct took over. After several minutes, she stopped and looked at me.
“Dan Roberts from New York City, will you take me to your hotel room?”
All I could think of was my mother and Larry. Keep it in your pants, Dan.
Is this really happening? I thought.
She smiled and stood before me. She was amazing. She held out her hand to me and said, “Please Dan, let’s go.”
With that, my resistance was completely lost. I stood and took her hand. I reached down, picked up her bag, and carried it for her. We headed for the crosswalk in front of my hotel.
I thought, Oh shit, what if I run into Larry and George?
I looked at Suri and said, “One moment.” I took out my phone and hit redial.
Larry answered, “Where are you, Dan?”
“I’m sightseeing still. What a marvelous city.”
“Look, we’re still getting the runaround, but they haven’t said no. We’re going to keep at it. You keep sightseeing, and we’ll see you for breakfast at 8:00 a.m.”
I was in disbelief. Could I be this lucky?
“Okay, Boss. Good luck and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I was so nervous. I surprised myself and wondered: what’s the problem Dan? You’ve done this before. We walked past the doorman. He tipped his hat and smiled. He probably thought I had found a hooker, but she was far too beautiful for that.
We went through the main lobby. It seemed everyone in the place had their eyes on me. Of course, with such a beauty next to me, how could they help but look?
We got into the elevator and headed up. Suri looked up at me and began kissing me again. The elevator stopped, and the door opened to my floor. Thankfully, no one was standing there to witness our exhibition of youthful enthusiasm.
I pushed her away and took her by the arm, and we moved towards my room. I had a terrible thought: Do I have a condom? Then I remembered that I had thrown a couple in a pocket in my briefcase. Hey, you never knew.
We entered the room and closed the door. Suri immediately began unbuttoning my shirt. Then my pants. I had to kick off my shoes so she could pull my pants off. I pulled her toward the bed, and we both kind of collapsed onto the bed like two school kids in heat.
Then, in a moment of sanity, I stopped our passionate embrace.
“Suri, are you sure you want to go any further? We just met.”
“Daniel Roberts from New York City, I have been waiting for you all my life.”
I couldn’t help but wonder. What’s the catch? Is she real?
She reached behind and unfastened her bra. It fell to the floor. She stood before me, an absolutely perfect shape to behold. Not too large, not too small. Perfection before my eyes – my Aphrodite.
I stood and went over to pull down the covers on the bed. I stopped by my briefcase and grabbed a rubber.
She saw what I was doing and smiled knowingly, “Yes, that’s best. Definitely a good idea.”
With that, she began to remove my underpants to reveal my manhood. The shorts dropped to the floor.
All I could hear her say was, “Oh my God.”
Let’s just say that, in school, I was somewhat famous in the gym showers and leave it at that. Now, as she sees me for the first time, I am already fully aroused, making things even more impressive.
Again, a rational moment in response to her sudden reaction: “Suri, it’s okay if you wish to stop.”
Of course, I thought, it really isn’t. If she left now, I’d probably jump out of the window of this tenth-floor room.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You are beautiful…amazing even.” With that, she pulled off her thong and exposed her womanhood. She grabbed me by the arm, and we fell on the bed.
I had never had sex as passionate as this. When we finally began the final act, she moaned slightly.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, it just hurt for an instant. Take me. Take me now.”
Within moments, we both exploded in total rapture. We lay still for just a minute or two, and then she looked at me and started giggling.
I said, “What on earth are you laughing at? I thought that was pretty damned wonderful.”
“Yes Dan, it was wonderful and more. I was just laughing at the fortunate meeting in the park, and now we are one.”
Like a typical arrogant young stud, I think to myself, wow! I must have outdone myself.
She adds, “We will have our memories of this brief moment forever. What time is it?”
I look at my watch, “Seven-thirty. Do you have to be somewhere?”
She jumped up and began dressing. “Yes, I have to be home by eight-thirty, and sometimes the buses are slow. Can we meet again? How long will you be here?”
“I’m leaving Saturday for Geneva. I do have work to do. I don’t know when I will be free.”
“Okay, I understand. I can get the number of the hotel, and I know your room number. I will call you and see if we can meet. I can’t thank you enough for being gentle and loving.”
With that, she finished putting on her chic, sexy outfit and then reached into her bag and pulled out the modest and traditional garb. She slipped into it, but before she covered her face, she grabbed me and gave me a huge kiss.
“That’s thank you and goodbye. I hope we can meet sometime soon.”
“Here’s my card. If I don’t see you again, please write me in New York. Perhaps you can come visit me sometime. I would have much to show you.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you so much.”
With that, she turned and went through the door and out of my life. I closed the door and collapsed back on the bed. Just before I fell asleep, I thought, Mother would kill me, but oh my God, was she worth it.
CHAPTER 5
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
I woke to someone banging on my door. I jumped up and looked through the peephole, and George was standing there. Still naked, I opened the door just a bit.
“What is it?”
“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’ It’s eight-thirty. You were supposed to meet us for breakfast at eight.”
I scrambled, “Damn jet lag! Do you ever get used to it? I’ll shower quickly and meet you in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, Dan. Larry and I will be waiting in the lobby.”
At a dead run, I jumped in and out of the shower, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and grabbed some clothes. I was ready in about ten minutes. I thought, “Geeze! I would never hear the end of it if George knew the truth.”
“Larry, I’m so sorry. I just can’t get past this jet lag. How long before you figure out how to handle it?”
“Never. Let’s compare notes. You said you got the feeling that he had been at the hospital. We had a most interesting evening meeting with the chief judge of the Sharia Law Court. I still can’t believe he gave us a full hour. The only problem is he did more talking about his religion than telling us what we wanted to know. Anyway, from him, I definitely got the impression that the acid has not yet dropped.”
“Really? Could it be that he’s still in the hospital? The jail?”
“George and I think so. Let’s repeat today. You go back to the hospital. I just have a feeling that we’re missing something if we don’t identify the Christian administrator. Take your best shot. We’ll head for the State Department now that we seem to know the sentence has not yet been carried out. When you give up or find something, call me, and we’ll decide where to meet.”
“Okay, I’m off. Talk to you this afternoon.”
I headed straight out, and the doorman hailed me a cab. I decided to be more aggressive and go into the hospital. I confidently walked past the same girl that was on the desk on Monday. I went down a corridor, and started looking at names on doors. These appeared to be the executive offices. In a hospital, they would be near the main reception area – as opposed to in a corporate office, where they would be as far away from the entrance as possible allowing the executives privacy.
I eventually spotted one name on a door that seemed a bit odd: Dr. Aristotle Farrahi. I thought, what Iranian would name their son Aristotle? I wrote the name down, but Dr. Farrahi’s office was empty.
I went into the employee’s cafeteria and made small talk with a few workers. Hopefully, one of them might slip and mention Salehi. Again, I got no real information, but I did hear people talking about “Dr. Ari” often. Either he ran the place, or he was the best-liked doctor there.
At noon, I found a quiet spot and made a phone call.
“Larry, it’s Dan. It was more of the same at the hospital. Definitely got a feeling everyone got uncomfortable when I mentioned Salehi. The only possible clue I have is that I’ve found a doctor who must be near the top of the pecking order, and his first name is Aristotle.”
“Wow, you have found him. I’ll bet he’s Greek Orthodox, or – like the rest of the Christian Iranians – Melkite Catholic. Give it a bit longer to see if you might be able to find him. Then go back to the hotel and meet me in the lobby at six-thirty. We’ll decide our next step then.”
“Okay Larry. See you at six-thirty.”
For the next three hours, I found a spot in the waiting room where I could sit and watch Aristotle’s office door. Finally, I gave up and headed back to the hotel.
At least we’re making some progress, I thought. I’d had no idea being an investigator would be so boring. Then I thought of the previous night and smiled – not everything was boring.
CHAPTER 6
THE ARREST
I had just returned again from the Central Judiciary Hospital. I had only breadcrumbs of information, but Larry seemed to think we were on to something. I was to meet George and Larry in the hotel lobby at 6:30 p.m. I went to my room to change and rest before dinner. About 6:00 p.m., I had just finished a shower and heard a loud bang on the hotel room door. In English, I heard, “Police!” and before I could grab a robe, the door was opened with a passkey. In came four Iranian police officers – machine guns pointed. One, a captain, asked if I was Daniel Roberts.
I nodded.
In perfect English, he said, “Daniel Roberts, you are under arrest for the rape of a minor, Suri Moslehi.” Still in just my undershorts, a large burly officer handcuffed me.
“I didn’t rape anyone. I did meet a girl named Suri last night, but there was no rape.”
The captain grabbed a pair of pants for me. After removing the belt and making sure the pockets were empty, he handed them to one of the officers, who helped him roughly put them on me. They grabbed my jacket. After searching its pockets, they put it around my shoulders and zipped the front. They saw my sneakers, took the time to remove the laces, and then slid them on my feet. It was obvious from the way they handled me that there was a lot of hate and contempt involved here.
They searched my briefcase and came up with my passports, which the captain put in his pocket.
“You’ll not need these,” he said. “Do you always carry two passports?”
With an officer hanging onto each arm through the jacket, they paraded me out of my room, down the elevator, and through the lobby. They held my arms so tight that later I noticed large bruises had appeared on each arm. George Lortz was already in the lobby waiting for Larry and me. He barely had time to yell, “What’s wrong?”
I shouted back, “I wish the hell I knew. Get help.”
I was roughly pushed into the rear of a minivan, and we sped off through end-of-day traffic with the incessant wailing of the two-toned horn that sent cars in our way scurrying to let us through.
Honestly, I had not even had time to think about the charge. Suri? What had he said her last name was? Moslehi? If this is my Suri from last night’s affair, surely there must be some mistake. That delightful and beautiful thing that had made my second full day in Tehran so welcome had seemed to have had a wonderful time. I had been looking forward to finding her again as soon as business would allow.
Since it was evening, when we arrived at the police headquarters, the captain in charge said, “It’s too late to interrogate you tonight.” He gave some orders in Farsi, which I tried to understand, but before I could, he said in English, “You will be taken immediately to Evin Prison. You will be questioned there in the morning.”
I knew enough of the history of bad things in Tehran and remembered the comments that had been made about the prison to know that Evin Prison was not a good thing. Oh shit.
Two officers, one driving and one next to me in the back, left quickly and headed across town to Evin Prison in the northwest suburbs of Tehran. The trip took some time, and visions of the problems I was about to cause at Amnesty for All Headquarters in Geneva bounced around my brain, mixed with more wonderings as to what the hell this was all about.
We arrived, finally, and the van was allowed into the center of the complex and stopped near an interior door. I was taken in and turned over to the prison guards, who seemed excited to have a new plaything. The two policemen that had delivered me unzipped my jacket, which fell to the floor. They removed the handcuffs. With almost a grin, the police officers made a quick, almost sarcastic salute in one final act of contempt for me, and left.
Now came the challenge of my limited Farsi, as it was obvious I wouldn’t find many who spoke English there at that hour. While one guy stood nearby with a rifle in his hand, the other motioned for me to remove my pants. I kicked off my sneakers and pulled off my pants. When I didn’t immediately remove my underpants, he quickly motioned, and I complied. All I could think was, “My God, what would Mom say right now if she knew I was standing in a prison, thousands of miles from home, stark naked?”
The sight of an American before them, or perhaps it was my generous penis, made both guards snicker a bit.
I couldn’t resist, and thankfully, they didn’t speak English, so I said, “Never seen a real man’s tool before?” I can be a sarcastic SOB, but my timing was probably most unwise.
At that, the one with the rifle pushed me from behind, indicating that I should go through the door. This was obviously some kind of search room, and it had a few showerheads to one side. Pushing me again with the gun, he made me lean over a table. The other guard quickly slipped on rubber exam gloves and ran his hands up and down my naked body. I have no idea why he had to frisk me when I was completely naked, but he did it, and then—with no warning – inserted two fingers where no man without a doctor’s license had ever gone before. I flinched, and the gun was pressed harder into my back.
I shuddered as this big, hairy man rubbed his hands up and down my body. My God, how can any man allow another man to penetrate his anus? Only a very large gun being pressed into my back kept me from spinning and decking the son-of-a-bitch.
When he was done, they motioned to the shower, set a towel on the table, and handed me a bar of soap. I took a very quick and cold shower.
Once I finished and was somewhat dried off, they handed me what appeared to be gray pajamas and a pair of sandals akin to beach flip-flops. The pj’s were a bit large, but they stayed up. No one ever asked my name or asked me to sign for my clothes or anything else. I guess they just didn’t care.
One guard showed a pair of handcuffs and motioned for me to turn around. This time, they added a pair of leg chains around my ankles – tight enough that I had to walk in baby steps. A blindfold was placed securely. I was pushed toward another door, and I waddled with one of them on each arm down some long corridors and through several buildings. Finally, I was not happy with what I smelled. The blindfold might have been a blessing. I heard a few screams in the distance and sounds of what may have been men being tortured. Flashes of the old movie Midnight Express kept popping through my head. For the first time, I passed the point of being pissed and was now scared.
They finally stopped and addressed someone. My blindfold was removed allowing me to see a lone man turn his back on us and lean against the farthest wall. The door was unlocked. I was shoved in. Without a word, the door slammed shut, and they disappeared into the darkness. I was left shackled and handcuffed to spend my first night in jail.
After a moment, the man leaning against the wall turned around and gave me a half smile. “European?” he asked.
“American,” I replied.
His face lit up, and to my relief, he said, in somewhat broken English, “What the hell are you doing in Iran? And what got you here?”
I told him what had transpired and that I really had no idea what it was all about.
He replied, “You will know soon. Prisoners in this part of the prison are being charged under Sharia Law. The Moslem clerics who make up the Sharia Judge Panel like things to happen quickly. Pardon my poor English. I am Barid Ansari.” He reached for my hand, but pulled back when he realized that I was still handcuffed.
“I’m Dan Roberts from New York.”
My fears settled back some; Barid seemed to be friendly, and no threat.
“Allah be praised, I fear we’ll know our fate all too soon. What crime did they say you were arrested for? They must have told you something.”
“Yeah, they claimed I raped a girl.”
Barid said, “That explains why we are cell mates. I, too, am charged with rape. I’m told my trial will be next Wednesday. They must be planning on your trial soon, too.”
With that, I looked around the cell. There were two wood-frame cots, one chair, and a hole in the floor, which – judging by the odor – made up the toilet. No sink or running water. I sat on a cot and realized there was no mattress – just one blanket and hard wooden slats.
The awful stench was permeating my nose. “Yikes! And I thought the hotel bed was bad.”
Barid smiled and said, “I fear we won’t be here long enough to worry about these beds. Did you really rape a girl?”
“Hell no, I did meet a girl, and we had a delightful evening, and we ended up having amazing sex. I would have sworn she was twenty-one, but the police officer said rape of a minor.”
Barid’s face grew grim, “Allah be praised and welcome us both.” With that, he sat on the other cot and began to pray.
CHAPTER 7
THE PRE-TRIAL MEETING
Obviously, Thursday morning had seen little or no sleep – especially since they left me shackled. Shortly after the day began, food was pushed through an opening near the floor of our cell. I had complained about the poor food quality at our hotel, but I would never complain again. Each of us received a small bowl of cooked rice, a piece of bread, and a cup of water.
Barid said, “Eat! You will need your strength, and the food gets no better than this.” He picked up the food and tried to hand it to me. “Sorry – don’t leave it on the floor very long or you will feed the rats. I will help you eat.”
“I appreciate that, but maybe just a little water.”
Barid raised the cup to my lips.
I drank just a bit and said, “Thanks, that’s enough. If you like, you can eat mine.”
After what I’m guessing was a few hours, two guards came to the door of our cell and barked unrecognizable orders in Arabic – not Farsi. Barid immediately put his hands against the back wall and said, “If you don’t want to be shot, do the same as I do.”
I too, went to the wall, but I couldn’t lean as I was still handcuffed behind my back. I heard the key open the door, and before I knew it, one guard was checking my handcuffs, and the other was checking the leg irons on my ankles. I was again, blindfolded.
They said something I didn’t understand, and I had to rely on Barid’s translation: “They are going to interrogate you, and your court-appointed lawyer is here. Go with them, and remember, this isn’t home. Give them any problem and – if you’re lucky – you will die on the spot.”