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.“Taris, this is Mohammed,” came the voice on the first message from her boss.She skipped the message.The second message came on.“Mahdishahr,” came the faint, pain-filled voice of Qassou.“Golestan Street, a yellow warehouse…” Then, the unmistakable sound of gunfire.That was all.The message ended.Taris replayed it twice, then deleted the message.The message had come in at 9:16.She looked at her watch; it was 10:34.Her mind raced.She fought to control her emotions.Who had killed him? Police? VEVAK?If they killed him, they would have the phone.The phone would lead them directly to Al Jazeera and to her.Yet, there was a rational explanation.If they asked her why Qassou called, she would say that he calls every day.At least once a day.That is what reporters do.He’s a source.An important source.Yes, she could bluff them easily enough.But what if they took her in, and interrogated her? What if they tortured her? What if they did what VEVAK does to so many citizens from whom it wants information: what if they took her father in and threatened him? Taris knew she wouldn’t last long if they tortured her.She needed to run.She went to her desk and was about to shut down her computer when she heard a noise that made her heart stop.It came from outside.A car door slamming, then shouting.She walked across the office to the window.What she saw made her gasp, then put her hand to her mouth.In the busy street out in front of the office building, four black sedans were stopped in the middle of the road.Traffic was already beginning to back up.Horns were blaring, and several drivers, caught behind the vehicles, were shouting.The dark sedans’ occupants didn’t care about the fact that they were stopping traffic on one of downtown Tehran’s busiest streets.A loose line of officers in black uniforms was sprinting from the vehicles toward the front entrance of the building.Taris closed her eyes.Be calm now, dear girl.She heard the voice of her father.“What’s happening?” asked another reporter, looking up from his computer as Taris walked calmly across the office.Taris ignored him.She signed into her computer.She moved to “private browsing.” If they really looked, she knew full well, they would be able to find out which sites she’d gone to, but perhaps it would buy her some time.She signed into a Yahoo account she had set up for this singular purpose.She would use this account once.“Mahdishahr.” She typed in quickly.Down the hallway, she heard the sound of people entering the offices.“Golestan Street, yellow warehouse.”The first VEVAK agent stormed into the room as Taris completed the e-mail.“Taris Darwil!” the lead man shouted to one of her reporters, Katim, who looked as if he would faint.Katim pointed to her.The agent raised his handgun and aimed it at her head as a swarm of other agents entered behind him.“Stop whatever you are doing!” the agent yelled.“What do you want?” Taris said, indignant.“I’ve done nothing wrong.”Her fingers moved across the keyboard.She hit SEND just as the agent arrived at her desk and pushed her off her chair.She went tumbling to the ground.He looked at her screen.Taris said nothing.Instead, she crawled a few feet away, acting fearful.“What have I done?” she asked quietly.“Get Haqim over here,” said the first agent, staring into the computer screen.The agent stepped from the computer and aimed his weapon at Taris.He moved the muzzle of the weapon closer, then knelt down next to her.He brought the steel of the weapon’s tip against her forehead.“What did Qassou say?” he asked, anger seething in his voice.“Speak or you die.What did he tell you?”“When?” Taris asked.“We speak all the time.”“At nine sixteen!” the agent barked.“What did he say?”“I wasn’t here.I haven’t spoken with him today.”“She logged into a private directory two and a half minutes ago,” said another agent, now scouring Taris’s computer screen.“That’s all I can determine without running some diagnostics.”“What does that mean?” asked the agent still pointing his gun against her forehead.“It means she did something on a private setting.We might not be able to retrieve it.”He turned back to her.“What was it?” he demanded.Taris ignored him, looking up from the ground as tears came to her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.“Answer me!” screamed the agent.She said nothing.The agent stared at Taris.“So you’re going to be a problem, yes?” he asked.“That’s too bad.”The big Iranian swung the handgun across her face and smashed the butt into her nose, crumpling it.Taris screamed as blood began to pour from the nose.“You used to be a very pretty girl,” he said as he leaned over and grabbed her arm, pulling her up, as the other agent hastily packed up her laptop.Taris glanced around the newsroom at her colleagues, who stared at the scene in silence.“Get back to work,” she said.47EVIN PRISONTEHRANMeir let his mind drift to Israel.Then, for whatever reason, he thought of his mother.He remembered how she would come to his school, every day, and walk home with him.Until he was in fourth grade, he would hold her hand on the small sidewalks between the school and home.Every day, when they arrived at home, there would be a snack waiting on the kitchen table.Homemade cookies or fruit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]