Mustapha’s Daily Goods
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 3:19 p.m.
I opened the door a quarter inch. Enough to see a single eye peering in at me. If that eye was red or even reddish I was going to put a bullet through it.
“Are you okay in there, my friend? Do you need assistance?”
They were the kinds of question anyone would ask, but the exact phrasing was a prearranged code. I opened the door a few inches, pistol out of sight. Ghost stuck his nose into the crack and began cataloging everything he could about the man outside.
“I’m just a little tired from the trip,” I said, using the proper response to the coded questions.
“Perhaps I can help,” he said.
I opened the door and the store clerk’s eyes darted first to Ghost, then to my lowered gun and finally to me. No shock or surprise registered on his face.
“I am Jamsheed Mustapha,” he said.
I didn’t give my name, and he didn’t ask.
Jamsheed was about fifty but he wasn’t carrying it well. His posture was bad and his face was deeply lined. Stress lines, not laugh lines. “The store is locked,” he said, “and I’ve engaged the jammers. No one is listening and no one knows you’re here.”
“Works for me,” I said as I eased the hammer down on the pistol and returned it to my waistband. Jamsheed backed away to allow me to step outside. Ghost remained right where he was, cued to do so by a small finger signal I gave him. He would watch and wait and stay alert until I signaled him to stand down.
“ As-salamu ‘alaykum,” I said.
“ Wa-laikum as-salam,” said Jamsheed and offered me his hand. We shook. He had frail bones but managed to give a firm shake. He did a second, longer appraisal, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, bloodstains, my battered face, the works.
“You are hurt? I have a first aid kit in my apartment. We’ll get you cleaned up. I have clothes, too. There will be some in your size.” He paused. “Have you spoken to the Mujtahid?”
I nodded. Mujtahid was the Arabic word for “scholar,” but it was also one of the many code names for Mr. Church. I relaxed even more at that name and gave the stand-down signal to Ghost, who immediately flopped down and appeared to lapse into a canine coma. Apparently he was faking his combat readiness.
“Is there something wrong with your dog?” asked Jamsheed.
I explained about the Taser and the net. Jamsheed asked me to wait, and he went into the store and came back with a plastic bowl, two bottles of water, and a bag of high-protein dog biscuits. He handed everything to me. It was clear that he knew enough about military-trained dogs to not try to give the food and water to Ghost directly. I thanked him. Jamsheed earned a whole lot of points from me for that kindness. I knelt and emptied one bottle into the bowl, tore open the bag of biscuits, and laid six of them in a row. Ghost pried open an eye, flexed his nostrils, and wagged his tail. He got shakily to his feet and set-to with a will, lapping up the water and then suddenly going hog wild on the biscuits, his usual daintiness forgotten for the moment.
“Are the police looking for you?” asked Jamsheed.
I shook my head. “They’re looking for someone, but no one has my description.”
“That simplifies this. You look like you could use some food and drink as well, my friend.”
“At this point, I’d even go for one of the dog biscuits.”
Ghost shot me a “don’t even think about it” look and moved to stand between me and his food.
“My team is coming for me,” I said. “Can I stay here for a few hours and wait?”
“Of course, of course, as long as you need.” He didn’t ask for details, and I had no idea what information Church told him. Jamsheed seemed to be taking all of this in stride. He took me by the arm and led me through a small door into his apartment. It was cramped, but very clean and decorated with gorgeous framed photographs of children, animals, landscapes, and buildings.
“Your work?” I asked.
He nodded. “A hobby. I hope to retire from this work and concentrate on photography.” He leaned on the word “work.”
“You have an incredible eye,” I said, and I wasn’t joking. Each of the pictures was a small masterpiece of composition. Not just a flower, but an angle that showed light caressing the striations on a delicate petal in a way that cast it as an alien landscape. Not merely a photo of a child with a kitten, but a glimpse into the wonder in that child’s eyes and the trust in the body language of the kitten. Each piece was a statement filled with visual poetry that betrayed a deep understanding of the connection between the physical world and the spiritual. “These are really quite beautiful.”
He made a modest sound of dismissal.
“No,” I said, crossing to stand in front of one picture in particular, “you have the gift.”
Jamsheed came and stood next to me, trying to see the picture through my eyes-a foreigner, a soldier, a non-Muslim, a stranger. The image that caught me, that riveted me, was of a chain-link fence beyond which a group of kids played soccer in a deserted parking lot. Beyond the skill of the composition, the story it told struck me to the heart. A bunch of kids totally absorbed in their game. At that distance and with a gentle softening of the focus, he made the children nonspecific. It no longer mattered if they were preteens or teens, if they were boys or girls, or if they were Muslim or Christian. What mattered, what shone through, was that they were innocent and at peace with the fun they were having. That picture might have been taken anywhere. England or Uruguay, Alabama or here in Iran. There were so many lessons implied in the simple grace of those children, and it had been perfectly captured by this man’s camera.
He waited out my long silence, then asked, “What does it say to you?”
“Lots,” I said. “But I guess… two things most of all.”
“Oh?”
“Everybody has kids,” I said, “and everybody loves their kids.”
Jamsheed touched the edge of the frame near the image of a little girl who was no more than a happy blur as she ran after a ball. “Yes.”
“And… this is why we do what we do.”
I turned to him and saw a mix of thoughtful expressions play across his face. “It’s funny,” he said, “but I would have thought you would say something like, ‘this is why we fight.’”
“I know. That occurred to me,” I admitted, “but it isn’t the right way to say it. I’m not in this business to fight. Seeing these pictures… I don’t think you are, either. It’s not about the conflict. It’s about what it preserves and what it allows.”
Jamsheed nodded and went over to a tiny kitchenette and began filling a teapot with water. “I once knew a Sufi who said that anyone who goes to war is crazy. But… I don’t think he was exactly correct. I believe it is more accurate to say that anyone who wants to go to war is crazy.”
“That says it,” I agreed.
He put the kettle on the burner, then fetched a first aid kit and helped me clean and dress my wounds. He had to pick some window glass and wood splinters out of my scalp and back from when I had crashed out of my hotel room and onto the balcony while waltzing with the knight.
“You have a lot of scars already,” he said as he worked, “so these should blend in.”
“Hazards of the job.”
“Mm.”
I caught Jamsheed sniffing a few times as he worked, and it took me a moment to make the connection.
“Garlic,” I said.
“Yes.” He didn’t ask, though he clearly wanted to.
“Long, weird story. Probably best if I don’t share.”
He nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
“Do you do field work?” I asked.
“Not anymore.” He considered for a moment and then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled the cloth apart to reveal two scars. Bullet holes. “Souvenirs of an adventurous youth.”
I noticed that he had other scars. More than his share. Around his eyes, around his fingernails. He’d been beaten and very likely tortured at some point. He noticed me looking and offered the smallest of shrugs, but he didn’t comment.
When he was done picking out the last of the splinters, he showed me the bathroom and even turned on the shower for me. Before I closed the bathroom door, I asked, “Why don’t you retire? The world needs more artists.”
He shrugged. “The time isn’t right yet.”
It was a simple statement, but a sad one, and it stayed with me while I showered, dried, and changed into clean clothes. Jamsheed was a lot smaller than me, but he was well stocked. When I came out of the bathroom I found several choices of clothes in extra-large. I dressed in khakis and a white dress shirt. Jamsheed also left me a makeup kit and a hot cup of tea. I sipped the tea as I touched up the dye job Khalid had given me before we rescued the hikers. My tan only needed a mild olive tint. Jamsheed didn’t have brown contact lenses, but there were plenty of blue-eyed people in the Middle East.
When I came out, Jamsheed inspected the work and nodded approval. Ghost had come in from the storeroom and lay sprawled in front of an oscillating fan, twitching every now and then as he dreamed.
Jamsheed set out plates of food and we ate a lunch of chelo kabab — steamed saffron basmati rice and grilled chunks of goat, accompanied by pomegranate soup. He apologized for it being leftovers, but I didn’t care. It was delicious and I cleaned my plate. When Ghost woke up and saw that my plate was empty, he looked truly wounded. However, Jamsheed fetched a bowl of leftover khoresht beh, a lamb stew thick with rice and vegetables. Ghost nearly fell on him and wept. Jamsheed watched with some amusement as Ghost attacked the food.
Jamsheed was not a talkative man. Perhaps it was because he did not want to know anything about who I was or why I was in Iran. He may have been our local contact, but it did not change the fact that he was Iranian. I wondered what conflicts warred inside his artist’s mind. What was it about his government that made him want to side with people like Church? I’d met a few people like him before, and they ranged from traitors whose souls could be bought to idealists who believed that change for their country was necessary.
Then I saw him cutting quick looks at me and twice he opened his mouth to say something then changed his mind. I set my fork down.
“What is it?” I asked.
Jamsheed furrowed his brow. “The incident last night. The young Americans.”
I waited.
“Was that you? Is that why you’re here?”
I sat back and dabbed my mouth with a napkin.
Jamsheed looked uneasy. “I know, I know-I shouldn’t be asking such questions.”
“Then why are you?”
He got up and walked over to the picture of the children playing soccer. He stared at it for a long time. “We are a warlike people. I don’t mean just us Iranians. I mean all people. Humans. The veneer of civilization is very thin.”
“At times,” I said. “Not always.”
He conceded with only a small nod. “No, not always. But too often it is true. War is a disease and we are all infected. And, like carriers, we pass it along to our children.” He touched the picture. “Sometimes, we even involve our children. That is against God. No matter what faith you are, no matter how devoutly you pray, it is an affront to God.”
“Yes it is,” I said.
He turned to me. “Not everyone in my country’s government is corrupt. Not everyone is in love with war. There are good people here.”
I nodded. “I know that. I can say the same about my government, or any government. There are always heroes and villains. And there are people who do bad things because they think it’s right. Depends on the viewpoint they’ve come to believe in. Some are misled, some come from a tradition of intolerance. Look how long it took my country to free its slaves and give everyone the vote. As far as I know, no one country holds the patent on moral perfection.”
Jamsheed sighed. “This was not the first time my government kidnapped young people and called them spies. Ever since we began our nuclear program, it has become unofficial policy to use these kinds of tactics. It gets into the world press, and even though we are condemned for it, there is just enough room for doubt to stall the process of releasing them. It is…” He fished for a word, waving his hand as if he could snatch it out of the air. The word he came up with was “dishonorable.”
“Yes it damn well is.”
“To use children is…” He wanted another word, a worse word. But what word was really adequate?
We looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. There were all kinds of things being said without either of us having to say another word. Eventually, though, I did say one word.
“Evil.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “It is the worst face of evil.”