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  “Foreign countries have been a lifetime hobby of mine. I enjoy the power that comes with usually knowing more about a country than most of the people who live in it. One day, when I retire, I would like to be invited to join a think tank, preferably somewhere in the States. Who knows, you might be able to suggest such a place? I have a fascination with the theory of the so-called lone wolf. The power of such solo terrorists is truly phenomenal, as law enforcement has no idea what so ever, of how to profile a man or woman with a mission and passion to kill people.

  He went on. “A business colleague, a friend, your child’s college roommate, a pizza delivery guy, all could be a lone wolf terrorist who had blended into normal city life. Any of them could be planning a massive explosion to go off at a shopping mall, a movie theater, or any place where crowds gather. Jay, imagine, one person, one explosion, and a city can be shut down by a lone wolf, and everyone else in the country will be glued to the television for days.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  My watch says it’s 4:15. Sadegh is nearly half an hour late. Sadegh is never late. Is he sending a message or making a statement? In my mind, I replay last week’s threat to attend the hanging. Maybe it is an ego thing. Even though I had saved him $200,000, Sadegh needs to show he is in control.

  He clearly knows I am counting on his introducing me to some of his friends. This is how I obtain most of my clients, by recommendation. We both know the potential of future commissions on sales is what has brought me to the hanging.

  There is no way that I am going to antagonize Sadegh; I recognize him for what he is, a classical mean-spirited and dangerous abuser: first rage, then domination, then control. He ranted and raged at the restaurant. The domination has brought me to the hanging. The control is Sadegh’s toying with me by keeping me waiting. Abuse is not strictly men beating up women; it is also a boss-employee relationship, or a ten-year-old’s bullying a five-year-old at school, or a terrorist hijacking a planeload of people. This is also the profile of a serial killer.

  The lie I have told myself still roils in my throat. I feel a mounting sense of shame. Would all his contacts be manipulators like Sadegh? Can I comfortably do business with them?

  I feel someone touch my arm. “Hello, Jay. Here are the papers for my Chicago properties.” Sadegh speaks perfect English with an American accent, having lived in Washington D.C. during his teenage years. After school, he went to West Point, finishing in the top five percent of his class. He returned to Iran and quickly rose to the rank of SAVAK general.

  He has a thick beard, is powerfully built, with the bearing of military man, back ramrod straight. Sadegh is smiling and shakes my hand. I take the envelope.

  “Today you will witness an historic event. These men who will hang are the vilest of scum. Remember, Jay, they are not men; they are scum who soil our motherland with their filth. Consider them as you would a mosquito. As the parasite settles onto your body, it will begin sucking blood immediately, so you squash it as fast as you can and deny the creature your precious blood. This is what these traitors to society are. They are a virus that spread deadly diseases. They need to be squashed and eliminated before they bring chaos and suck out the lifeblood of our country and contaminate it with acts of treason. In a few minutes, that is what we will do. We will kill them. Then they can’t suck any more blood or irritate us anymore.”

  He shakes my hand again, bows slightly, and turns, walking away. His six bodyguards fall in on either side of him, their heads turning continuously, searching the crowd, guns cocked and at the ready.

  Delighted with Sadegh’s friendliness and the envelope safely in my pocket, I walk towards an open area where merchants are selling hot dogs, cigarettes, candy, sweet sticky baklava, and pistachio nuts. A makeshift restaurant with tables and chairs, some under umbrellas, is selling chello and joo-joo kebabs. I order spiced chello kebab and sit down at a shaded table. This is Iran’s national dish, made of barbecued meat or chicken skewered, served on a bed of fine-grained, plump white rice. The type of rice, with its sharp white color, can only be found in Iran. When the meal is brought to my table, I take a large spoonful of butter and stir it into the hot rice. As it melts, I crack open an egg, which has been cooked for less than a minute, pour it onto the rice, then stir thoroughly until the mixture turns moist and yellow.

  I am pleased with myself, already forgetting my hesitancy of working with Sadegh. We also have San Quentin, Sing Sing, and dozens of other states that execute criminals by hanging, gas chamber, or electric chair. Why am I suddenly “holier than thou”? Sadegh wasn’t angry any longer. This means introductions to important people, future clients, and future commissions.

  Eating leisurely, I look around, wondering how much longer before the criminals are hanged. Wish they’d hurry up so that I can leave. Heavily armed troops are stationed strategically on surrounding buildings and patrol along the perimeter of the huge crowd.

  A hush settles as three men, a police captain and two sergeants march smartly up the ramp to where manila ropes have been fashioned into nooses. The nooses move lazily in the slight wind. Quiet settles over all spectators, and even the hotly contested soccer game stops. All eyes watch the captain and his two assistants as they check the ropes, metal clasps, and trap doors. The hangman is doing a job, performing a task for the people, so he is unmasked, as are his helpers. Victims and their families know it is not personal, so they do not vow blood revenge. They are grateful if he does the job well and efficiently so that their loved ones die quickly with a minimum of suffering.

  These men about to be hanged mean nothing to me.

  Downing my meal, I get up from the table and position myself near one of the exits. I find that I am very close to the gallows.

  A parking lot outside is reserved for hearses. The three drivers are smoking and telling each other jokes as they sit in the shade playing backgammon, or “shesh-besh,” as Iranians call their favorite game. A large stone has been placed on their betting money next to the board. The drivers seem oblivious of the gallows, which are a few yards behind them on the other side of the wall. It is hard to understand how playing shesh-besh is so much more important than what is taking place only ten feet away.

  Family members and friends are seated below the gallows in an area roped off for them. Dressed in mourning clothes, the families are positioned near wheelbarrows that transport the bodies to be washed and made ready for burial. Coffins have been selected and measurements taken. Special mementos requested by the condemned men are carried in bags and purses. These mementos will be placed on top of each body before the coffins are nailed shut. Weeping, mourners support each other. They rock from side to side in their grief, sobbing quietly; a few have smeared sand on their hair and faces. Others have sticks and are praying as they methodically hit themselves on their chests and shoulders.

  They said their private farewells to the condemned men the previous night. What topics would or could be spoken about to a loved one about to be executed in a few hours? Do all people say more or less the same thing? Does one comfort the condemned or encourage him or both? Are their conversations monitored or taped? How does a family cope with the aftermath of an execution? Conversely, how could a family willingly sit on a chair in front of a taunting crowd and watch how their loved one is killed? Surely it would be better not to watch the frantic kicking of the feet as they drop through the trapdoor and die an agonizing death of slow strangulation, which continues for many minutes as the noose gets tighter and ever tighter. Is their need to be there an affirmation to the condemned man that his family is with him to the gruesome, painful end?

  Maybe I should ask Sadegh if it is an Iranian custom for a family to be present at an execution. This will surely please him that I have shown an interest in the proceedings.

  Moralizing is not working for me as I become more agitated. I am supposed to be just a disinterested spectator. Why then do I find myself trying to justify me being there? Has the commission on the sale of Chicago p
roperties clouded my judgment? Have I sold my soul to Sadegh? Is my integrity only worth $60,000? No matter how I try to justify it, what I am witnessing is barbaric. Cruelty is being ruthlessly and callously inflicted and by my being here is no different than the drivers of the hearses who play shesh-besh. I want out. To hell with Sadegh’s potential clients. Angrily, I make my way toward the exit, glancing sideways at the roped-off enclosure where mourners sit a few feet away from me.

  Standing to one side, slightly away from the other mourners, is a young boy. The boy reminds me of someone. Puzzled, I can’t think of whom. I stop feel uneasy for I am sure I’ve seen him before somewhere. Maybe he’s the boy packed my groceries at the supermarket or pumped my gas at a gas station. I try to dismiss my uneasiness, but it won’t let go. Something doesn’t feel right.

  The young boy is dressed in clothes of the mountain Kurds: baggy pants, long loose shirt, long scarf. His multi-colored hat is in his hand. I estimate him to be about twelve years old and find it odd that he is not distraught or mourning loudly like the others are. The boy is slightly built with a shock of long, black hair falling onto his shoulders. In the middle of his forehead, the size of a fist, is a patch of white hair slashing vivid against black curls.

  Some of the teenage boys who’d been playing soccer run toward the Kurd, throwing fruit and jeering. He ignores them. Annoyed, they start picking up stones and throwing them. Most stones miss. A few hit one draws blood on his cheek. He doesn’t look at the boys or touch his cheek. He just stands there intently, watching the door of the prison.

  Rapidly losing face in front of their girlfriends, one of the boys breaks a bottle and starts toward the Kurd.

  I forget about leaving, and instead move quickly to position myself between the boys. The teen stops bottle still raised poised to strike. Quietly, I say in Farsi, “You really don’t want to do that. Leave him alone.”

  Seconds go by. The teen’s eyes darken and he looks at me, measuring the challenge. The standoff lasts about thirty seconds. His face begins turning red with anger, fanning into humiliation. His friends say nothing, I know that they are unsure of who I am, or could be. Sullenly, the boy turns, throws the bottle onto the grass and walks away with an exaggerated swagger.

  The Kurd doesn’t look around or acknowledge me as I begin walking toward the rope and stand next to him. A piece of rope and his ancient culture separates us. One is a mourner, the other a spectator.

  The white patch of hair ruffles as the wind gusts. Then it hits me. The boy must be Dara’s son! Dara is chief of the Kurds in the Zaghros Mountains of Kurdistan. The boy has Dara’s face, the same white patch of hair. The boy has to be his son. He was a small child when I’d seen him last. Now I begin to see the resemblance, but what is Dara’s son doing standing near the gallows? Maybe Dara is with him or will join him later. Delighted, I turn excitedly to the boy. If Dara is nearby, I want to speak to him.

  Loud cheers erupt, drowning out the question. Everyone jumps to their feet chanting. Sadegh told me that bedlam would continue until the men are on the platform facing their nooses. I bend down to ask the little boy how I can find Dara, but the boy pulls away angrily.

  The first prisoner walks awkwardly between four policemen, arms tied behind his back, his shaved head bowed. Shaving his head is the only option given the man who could choose to show his remorse and shame. He is wearing a white shirt, white trousers, and walks barefoot. A ramp had been built because getting prisoners up stairs is too difficult especially if they resist. The man has been fitted with a canvas diaper to be ready for the reflexive opening of his bowels immediately following “the awesome shudder.”

  “The awesome shudder” is a final death throe, the last kicks his feet will make. On seeing this, a doctor will wait an additional ten minutes before examining him. Then the doctor will climb up a stepladder placed next to the hanged man. Carefully, he will listen for heartbeats with his stethoscope. If the man is dead, the doctor will instruct that the body to be lowered.

  Gamblers have already starting accepting odds. The crowd has been laying bets and will be watching a large clock mounted on top of a wagon. Each minute is divided into twelve 5-second units. Each unit is called number one, two, three, and so on. The shortest odds are around two minutes, or twenty-four units, for the feet to stop kicking. Hanging deaths averaged between two and four minutes. However, if the victim has a muscular neck, it could take longer.

  The designated chief of the gambling syndicate is affectionately called “Little Father.” He stands next to an iron handle. When the hangman pulls the handle, it releases the catch locking the trap doors. Each trap door opens and the bodies drop. As the hangman is about to pull the handle, “Little Father” will blow sharply on a whistle. No more bets can be placed once the whistle sounds.

  For the men about to die, the whistle is the last sound they will hear.

  The second man, his head also shaven, follows ten paces behind.

  The third condemned man emerges through the door following the others up the ramp, his head is not shaved. Instead, he shakes his shoulder-length hair, lifting his head high. The boy next to me gasps and pulls in deep breaths. Defiantly, the third condemned man looks around, recognizes people, smiles and shouts to them. He walks to the ramp standing erect. He has showed no shame or fear. This is his road to martyrdom.

  I nearly double over. I feel as though I have been gutted. I can’t breathe. I gasp, sucking in air as I see the man with black hair has a patch of white hair in the middle of his forehead.

  The man walking up the ramp is Dara.

  Panic hammers my ribs. Stunned, I cannot believe that I am seeing Dara, chief of the Kurds, known as “The Hawk.” He is my friend. I look around. How could I be so stupid, so fucking, fucking stupid? How can I stop the execution? I have to stop it, but how? Panicked, I feel the wild beating of my heart. I see the jeeps and soldiers on the rooftops. More soldiers have appeared. Slowly it sinks in that there will be no more rescue attempts unless the Kurds can come in with helicopters. Anxiously, I look at the sky and realize I am being foolish. The soldiers will never let the condemned men escape. They’ll shoot them before anyone could rescue them.

  Sadegh…where is he? He could stop it. How can I find Sadegh? Then it dawns on me. Sadegh wants to kill Dara. Sadegh has called Dara a Communist. Sadegh wants to watch him die, squash him, stop being irritated by him.

  Numb, I stand paralyzed, not blinking, face and body rigid. A sledgehammer pounds mightily behind my eyes. Watching in anguish, I see Dara walking toward the platform. Despair washes over me, cloaking me with impotence and the weight of sure defeat. I know I can do nothing. No escape is possible. I watch and my heart breaks. I feel tears and know that I must not cry.

  Once the condemned men reach the platform, each man is placed a few feet behind the noose, and a leather body belt is clasped around his waist. One strap is tied around the elbows, another two inches below the knees. Only then are they lifted and carried to the noose, which is placed lifted over each head and placed behind the left ear.

  With the prisoners secured and standing in place, the policemen are no longer required. They turn, salute the hangman, and march smartly away down the ramp. Carefully, the hangman mentally goes through his checklist, examining necessary adjustments here and there. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, he climbs down the rungs at the back of the gallows.

  Dara, his eyes searching the crowd, is looking for his son. Suddenly he sees me. Recognition falls into his eyes. I look at those eyes, my friend’s eyes, and for a brief moment, we stare at each other. We are soldiers, friends, trusted. We fought side by side. A sick feeling of hopelessness settles in my soul as I silently beg Dara to forgive me, and my cowardice, for I cannot save him this time. He sees me put my hand on his son’s shoulder, nods slightly, and looks away. I watch this incredible brave man, standing tall and fearless. Years fall away, memories flood back.

  Dara never sees the tears falling from my eyes.


  The condemned men now stand alone, shirts and trousers fluttering in the breeze. The sun is setting behind them, warming their backs, buttocks, thighs, and calves. They stand equally spaced from each other, high above the crowd, unable to touch or comfort each other. They will drop at the same time, but each will die alone.

  Dara, his eyes still searching the crowd, shouts, “Sadegh Muzahedi, where are you? You filth, you loathsome snake, you hide away in the crowd. Stand up, you coward, let me see you one last time so that I can spit in your face. My hands are tied. Have no fear, you vulture, you coward. Stand up like a man. Walk onto this platform and look me in the eyes as you murder me. If I could have caught you, I personally would have hanged you. Come, there is still time. Hang me. I will laugh in your face, you cowardly piece of shit.”

  Dara slowly turns his head, glaring at the crowd, cursing the Shah, his voice resonant and strong. The crowd is quiet, surprised and uneasy at his lack of fear. They listen as he curses the Peacock Throne, curses the House of Pahlavi, Princess Farah and her children. They will all die like dogs, and dogs will fight to lick their blood and tear their entrails from the cobblestones. Dara looks at the people, unafraid, his eyes flashing, challenging them all. Over and over, he curses them. The crowd is hushed and some of them begin to back away from the gallows. This has never happened before. They fear this man; they fear his lack of fear.

  “Little Father” blows the whistle long and loud.

  ***

  As the boy moves toward a wheelbarrow, I grasp his hand and give him my business card.

  “Show your mother my card,” I say. “She knows me. My address is on it.”