Operation devils vengean.., p.17
Operation Devil's Vengeance, page 17
part #2 of Janusz Soltani Series
After finishing her tea, she threw the last biscuit on the table as nausea overwhelmed her stomach. She placed her hand over a stack of papers growing taller by the day. This month’s water bill was on top. The expense had never been a problem, but that was before Mohsen was out of work. Underneath the water bill was another reminder about the rent. She had warned Mohsen about the dangers of renting in a fancy building, but he never listened. She was out of ideas on how to replace his salary. Like most Iranians, she was not able to afford necessities through honest work on her own. Time would only tell if she could make it through this. Time and God.
She grabbed another document from the pile. It was her fifth time reading this particular letter from the Ministry of Health.
Dear Mrs. Zohreh Salehi,
After careful review of your case, I must inform you that the Ministry of Health will not be able to compensate you for your husband’s injury. Mr. Salehi had been extensively trained and given specific guidance on proper safety procedures in the laboratory. He had a long history of not following instructions provided by the lab director, Dr. Javad Ahvazi, who wrote me a personal letter about this case. In the latest instance, Mohsen was briefed on proper safety procedures for an experiment, which he subsequently did not abide by. Given his unwillingness to follow instructions, the Ministry of Health is not liable for his injuries. I regret to inform you of this decision. Mohsen’s expenses at the hospital will continue to be paid by his health insurance, but your request for his salary will be denied. His pension will also not be paid out. He had not worked long enough to meet the required threshold.
Sincerely,
The Honorable Akbar Shadi
Deputy Assistant to the Minister of Health
After reading the letter, she could take no more. She needed to shop for groceries before picking up the kids. The drive around town would help clear her mind. Driving toward Azadi Bazaar, she recalled an article in Shargh Daily, a reformist newspaper. The article explained how Iranian women, some single, others divorced, were flocking to the Emirati city of Dubai for money. Most of these women were either uneducated or runaways from abusive families. The Gulf Arabs had a particular fondness for Iranian women. The women ended up as prostitutes in various brothels, catering to the demand for Iranian flesh. The lucky ones became mistresses to emirs who took better care of them. Most likely, they would be abused, their passports taken away, and forced into sex slavery.
With two young kids to feed, she gave serious thought to her own prospects in Dubai. The children could stay with her parents. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about food and shelter for herself as her sponsor would provide those. She burst into tears at the desperate turn of events. Mrs. Salehi parked on a side street before entering the meandering streets of the bazaar. The narrow alleys were packed with shoppers. She stopped at a spice vendor. The shop owner had bags full of spices in all the colors of the rainbow, from purple sumac to golden saffron.
“Come, come, dear lady. You’ve never seen spices like this. I picked out this batch of sumac myself on my last trip to Kerman.”
“How much?”
“Why is a beautiful lady like you worried about the cost? I’m sure your husband will pay any price to bring these effervescent spices to your kitchen.”
“How about that one?”
“That, dear lady, is the finest saffron you’ll find in the world. My own son goes out to the saffron farms every week to get them for this store.”
“How much?”
“Again with the how much?”
“God is my witness, I don’t have much this month.”
“I’ll give you a terrific price, the kind of price you won’t see anywhere else in this bazaar. One gram for two hundred and ten thousand tomans, what do you say?”
She only had a total of two hundred fifty thousand tomans in her purse. It was either the saffron or another half kilo of meat at the butcher’s. Saffron gave an excellent flavor to the rice, but the children needed the protein to grow.
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s too much now. With the grace of God, I may return next month. Thank you for your time.”
“My dear lady, I keep telling you not to worry about the price. Come back, come back. I’ll make you a deal you can’t refuse.”
“I’m sorry, I must leave,” she said before walking out the store. The shop owner was still pleading as she turned the corner.
Down the narrow streets of the bazaar, past the candy and textile shops, Mrs. Salehi was planning her next move. The Khorasan Foundation had its headquarters near the hospital. She could plead her case for money. If they refused, she was determined to resort to more drastic measures.
38. Vali-Asr Hospital, Tehran, Iran
October 24
An ominous feeling grabbed hold of Mrs. Salehi as she entered the waiting room. Perhaps it was the gray skies gathering outside. Perhaps it was the glum expression on the faces she encountered in the lobby. Or perhaps it was the nauseating odor from the cafeteria, permeating every square centimeter of the hospital. Whatever it was, she felt sick to her stomach, and she was not certain why. She waited with the children in the designated room. It was strangely empty. Even the other lady was gone now. But what if—
“Oh, hey, there you are. I was wondering if you’d turn up. I’m so sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last time. I’m Nargess, Peyman’s wife.”
“Yes, I remember you. I’m Zohreh Salehi. I thought maybe …” She paused for a second. “… maybe something bad happened to him. Please forgive me for such thoughts,” Mrs. Salehi said.
“That’s not necessary, I’ve wondered the same thing. I must apologize for being so abrupt when we first met. It’s just that they don’t give us any answers. I’ve been staying with my sister’s family. Without Peyman, we could’ve lost the house. There was no way for me to pay the bills.”
“Heaven only knows I’m in the same predicament. I’ve been trying to figure our finances for the past few days,” Mrs. Salehi said.
“We got the news this morning. Peyman never caught it and is finally being released. I don’t know what took so long, but they allowed me to see him only twice since he checked in.”
“I’m happy for you. I’ve not seen Mohsen once. That sleazy doctor wouldn’t even allow me near his room,” Mrs. Salehi said.
“Oh, you mean Dr. Nader. Such a dreadful man. He has zero empathy for the families but a wandering eye for the ladies. Besides flirting with me, he’s lied about everything, and I mean everything.”
“What type of virus was your husband infected with?”
“They wouldn’t say, lying bastards. Dr. Nader said he infected himself in the lab by not taking proper precautions. I find that hard to believe. Peyman is quite fastidious.”
“I’m tired of this. I’m going to give that Dr. Nader a piece of my mind right after I visit Mohsen.”
“Please do. He should still be on the top floor,” Nargess said.
They hugged each other, and Mrs. Salehi told her kids to stay in the waiting room while she went to visit their father.
◆◆◆
When she emerged from the elevator, she was stricken by the eerie silence. It was a great contrast from the floors below. The lights were dimmed, perhaps to trick potential visitors into thinking the floor was abandoned. She searched the halls for his room. The IRGC sentries were nowhere to be found. A fluorescent light flickered on and off in the distance. With no one in sight to ask directions, Mrs. Salehi made her way down the dimly lit corridor. The cold air on this floor sent a chill down her spine as she walked from door to door. No one had ever bothered to tell her which one Mohsen was in. Most of the rooms were locked. Others were oddly empty with the lights out. She reached the end of the hall with no luck. She walked back to the elevators to reorient herself.
Then it hit her, a flashback to the last time she was here. Dr. Nader had stopped her somewhere nearby. There were several more hallways. She picked the one most familiar. She walked slowly at first. Each step was taken with great care not to alarm the guards who might be lurking in the shadows and empty rooms. Placing one foot in front of the other, she marched forward in the hope of seeing Mohsen’s face once more.
Down the corridor, underneath a door, was a sliver of light. Since the other rooms were all dark, her choice was clear. She approached with her right arm extended. The hairs stood on the back of her neck as she grabbed the door. Mrs. Salehi thought about the cavalier attitude with which Peyman’s wife was treated. She turned the knob in anger. A gush of wind pushed against the door. It weighed a ton. Mrs. Salehi used all her might until it cracked open. The room was blinding compared to the hallway, sending a jolting pain through her eyes. Electronic equipment covered in plastic littered every square centimeter. There was an abundance of plastic everywhere. Plastic curtains that came down to the floor cordoned off an entire section of the room. It was difficult to see the other side. She put her hand out while keeping her eyes closed. When she felt her hand clutching the plastic, she pulled it aside in one motion.
As she opened her eyes, she was immediately taken aback. In front of her was a plastic cocoon. Inside was a futuristic bed surrounded by instruments. Several computer monitors displayed information in English. As she stepped closer to the cocoon, it was clearly audible. The distinctive beep, beep of the heart-monitoring machine. She had been hooked up to one of those at the hospital in Hamadan while giving birth to her son and daughter. Oddly enough, her nerves were more on edge now than the day they were born. The voice in her head told her to run out the room to the elevators and down to the lobby. She chose to ignore the voice. It was a decision she would live to regret. As she got closer, a figure emerged inside the clear plastic cocoon.
She needed to be more daring. Mrs. Salehi took a few more steps. Did she really want to know? She could never forgive herself for not trying. She dared to walk all the way up, only centimeters from the mangled figure behind the plastic. Perhaps Mohsen was not infected, according to what Peyman’s wife had said in the waiting room below. Mrs. Salehi was probably in the wrong room. She turned to walk out. But she had to know for sure. A one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and several steps later, she stood over the ghastly figure once more. What was it exactly? A man? A beast? An alien, perhaps? She put her face right up against the plastic. The figure inside was completely bald, unlike Mohsen, who had a thick head of hair.
This could only be the work of the devil. There was blood oozing out of the left arm at the point where an IV needle had been inserted. Mrs. Salehi was not sure how she had missed it at first. It was as plain as the miserable creature in front of her. The sheets covering the man were soaked in blood. She wanted to call a nurse for a sheet change. No matter how hard she tried, she could not turn away. The man, it was definitely a man, was not wearing a shirt. Drool rolled down his chin. It was not just any kind of drool. It was black blood, something one expected to see coming out of the mouth of a demon. Suddenly, beep, beep, beep. The heart-monitoring machine picked up its pace in rapid succession. There was movement inside the cocoon. The figure shivered as if he was freezing. That’s when she finally spotted it. The little star-shaped mark above his left elbow. It was usually covered with hair. But here it was now, exposed, because this poor man no longer had hair. It wasn’t just any man. This was Mohsen Salehi, her husband of thirteen years. Lucky number thirteen. His birthmark was staring right at her.
She shuffled back, trying hard to breathe. Mohsen suddenly opened his mouth. He was convulsing now while the machine beeped rapidly. Without warning, Mohsen vomited. A gush of liquid tar came out like lava from a volcano. Most of it landed on the sheets, but some made it onto the plastic cocoon. Mrs. Salehi had never seen anything like it. What could it be, that substance which resembled crude oil more than anything else? When Mohsen finally cleared his mouth of the black sludge, he turned to face her. She froze, unable to speak even though she was desperate to shout for help.
“You bitch, I’m going to kill you,” Mohsen screamed.
The voice was harsher now, with little emotion, but it was definitely him.
“Mohsen, is that you? What have they done to you? Oh, dear God, what have they done?” Mrs. Salehi cried as she fell to the floor.
“You fucking whore, I’m going to tear you apart.” Mohsen lunged at her, trying hard to peel back the plastic surrounding him. The straps and the IV needle held him back. Blood oozed out from his veins as the IV popped out. Mrs. Salehi pedaled back on the floor toward the nearest wall. The plastic curtain flew open as several people rushed into the room. They were all wearing white spacesuits. One of them, wearing a mask, held a rifle that was pointed right at Mohsen. Three others ran toward the bed. They opened the cocoon to hold Mohsen down while injecting him with something. A fifth suited man emerged to pick her up from the floor.
“Mrs. Salehi, what are you doing here? Who gave you permission to enter this room?”
“Dr. Nader? Is that you? What have you done to my husband, you bastard? God will not be able to save you from my wrath. What have you done to my husband?” She kept repeating the same words over and over again.
“Mrs. Salehi, this is not your husband. This is the room of a very sick man. Now please come with me.”
“God only knows you’re lying to me, Dr. Nader. My poor husband, what have you done to him?”
“Guards, help me,” Dr. Nader cried out as two more space-suited figures emerged to grab her arms and legs. They carried her away as she stared at the cocoon one last time. The man inside was still convulsing while spewing black tar once again.
“I saw his birthmark. It’s him, I know it’s him. You’re lying to me,” Mrs. Salehi said as they dragged her out into the hallway. God was her witness, she was not going to let the government get away with this.
39. Monte Carlo, Monaco
October 24
There it was, the principality of Monaco, the world’s second smallest country. With a population of nearly forty thousand, it was also the world’s richest country per capita. Similar to Washington, DC, Monaco was divided into the four quarters of Monaco City, La Condamine, Fontvieille, and Monte Carlo. It was in Monte Carlo that the famous casinos were located. After five hours of driving, Janusz and Dr. Ahvazi entered Monaco, driving down the Exotic Garden Boulevard. The hills overlooking the Mediterranean were reminiscent of Malibu, California. The rocky cliffs provided a stark contrast to the blue waters below.
“Wow, we’re finally here. Khhhh, this is how I dreamed it would be,” Dr. Ahvazi said.
“Take it from me, dreams can be deceiving. We have a place like this in America called Las Vegas. There are many whose dreams have turned into a nightmare after only a day there.”
Dr. Ahvazi ignored the comment, sticking his head out the window.
“Be careful, now, I don’t want you to lose your head. At least not before you help me get to General Kalantari,” Janusz said in jest.
“Don’t worry about me,” Dr. Ahvazi said flippantly. “I’m hungry. When can we eat?”
“According to the GPS, we’ll arrive at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo in fifteen minutes. We’ll eat as soon as I turn the car over to the valet so we can get on with our business.”
“Ehhem, since you’re paying for lunch, I’ll wait as long as you like.”
Janusz continued into Boulevard Princess Charlotte. This street, like all the others, was wedged narrowly in between a series of high-rises. Once they arrived, Janusz handed the keys to the valet.
“You’re paying for all my expenses, right?” Dr. Ahvazi asked once more.
“Spare me the drama. I told you my people will take care of everything. Just don’t get carried away.”
After checking in through the elegant lobby, they took an elevator to their rooms. Overlooking the sea, Janusz’s elegant suite had a small balcony for dining with a view. Within minutes, Dr. Ahvazi was knocking on the door.
“You ready to eat, khhhh?” Dr. Ahvazi wanted to know as Janusz contemplated punching him.
“How about Le Grille? It’s on the eighth floor with great views of the Mediterranean, ghoolp?”
“Sounds lovely, do I have your permission to get dressed now?” Janusz said.
At Le Grille, they waited another thirty minutes for a table on the terrace. Janusz was on edge, not certain why Dr. Ahvazi was eager to visit Monte Carlo. In his pant pocket, he carried a .22, just in case. Once seated, Dr. Ahvazi grabbed a baguette as soon as the basket was placed in front of him.
“You realize, of course, that gambling is not allowed in Islam. Your colleagues back home will not be pleased,” Janusz said to lighten the mood.
“I don’t care what they think. I’ve spent the last twenty years of my life locked away in a lab. I think I’m entitled to some fun, khhhh.”
“Dubai is nearby. I’m sure you’ve played there before.”
“It’s not the same. Does a hamburger taste like an Iranian kabob? They’re both made of ground beef.”
“I see your point.”
“If you want to know the truth, the main reason is James Bond. I’ve watched all his movies in Iran. Always wanted to gamble in the casinos of Monte Carlo like he did.”
