The Screaming Eagles (14 page)

“Come on Hanan, let’s get real,” said Michael. “This time Iran is clobbering the Iraqis. I don’t use my satellite dish to only watch American television, I get what you get, and I’m as interested in Middle East politics as you are. I’m not shedding tears for them. It couldn’t happen to nicer guys. You know the old story, my enemy’s enemy is my friend and all that crap. The Iraqis are losing badly. In another few months, they’ll have to surrender. Guess Hassan Musavi feels strong enough to take on America, show them that he’s as strong as Khomeni was. I’m sure this will just be a diversion. What’s puzzling me though is why is he-provoking America unless it’s a prelude to something else? His aim, without a doubt, eventually is Saudi and the Gulf States, then he’s going on to his glorious Jihad, straight for Jerusalem. Is it true that he still uses Khomeni’s original map in his office?”

Hanan nodded. “One of our agents took photographs of his office, I’ve seen the pictures. The whole world is colored in various stages of green. The further away from Iran, the paler the green. Every time Moslem fundamentalists conquer another country or expand their borders, he colors it dark green. Israel is the only country on his map that is colored differently. We’re colored yellow.”

Michael laughed. “Yellow. You’re kidding?”

“Nope. I kid you not. It is official Hezbollah policy now to teach their children at school that Israel doesn’t exist. Teachers teach students that we’re just temporarily occupying a few hundred square miles so their atlas and area maps don’t show an Israel.”

“Tell me more about Musavi, I’m fascinated by the man. He’s a big mystery, seems to have come out of nowhere. I’d never even heard about him until he was suddenly made President.”

Tilting back in his chair and moving to find a comfortable position, Hanan answered, “You’re right, the man is brilliant. He’s a military tactician who has united Iran’s mullahs and army the same way Khomeni did. Musavi has a black turban. A mullah who has proven to the High Religious Council that he is descended directly from the prophet Mohammed can only wear a Black turban. Eventually, his goal is to have every country in the world colored in dark green, including America.”

“Remember my partner Kameran Samimi?” Hanan gave a slight nod, his fingers had begun drumming on the desktop. Michael recognized the sign of irritation.

He raised a finger slightly signaling Michael to stop talking. Jamming the intercom button he said angrily, “Where the hell is my car?” Not waiting for a reply he sat back in his chair saying, “Sorry continue please, I need to vent now and then to keep them from taking life too easy in the other room.”

“As the highest surviving elder of the Bahai religion, all Kameran had to do to live was to obey the mullahs. By refusing to sanction their orders that yellow stars be worn on the clothing of the Bahais so Iranians could see who in their communities were Bahais, he wrote his own death warrant. Khomeni’s mullah’s killed Kameran by torturing him to death in Evan Prison. What a terrible waste of a man who had so much to offer his people. Kameran was wrong. The Bahais’ needed a leader who was alive, not a dead martyr.”

Hanan took out a packet of gum, threw a stick to Michael and popped two pieces into his mouth saying, “Gave a lecture to a group of new recruits in Tel Aviv last month. None of them realized that throughout the history of the world, no man over the age of eighty has ever been able to do what Khomeni did. Gandhi was much younger. Sitting under a tree in Paris, without an army, without so much as even a gun in his hand, espousing the Koran and outsmarting the Shah, he was able to crush the Shah, the most powerful ruler in the Middle East. He was able to humiliate him, take away his country and butcher his supporters. History will recognize Khomeni for the brilliant genius that he was.”

“Talk about humiliation, I was here in Chicago, you were still overseas,” said Michael. “The American people were humiliated even more when Khomeni took four hundred hostages in Teheran. You didn’t feel the anger of the country, I did. Every talk show host crucified Jimmy Carter. Far right, far left didn’t matter. They hated the impotence of not being able to rescue them and the humiliation was worse than Vietnam. Khomeni only released them when Reagan came into office. I believe that Reagan didn’t beat Carter; it was Khomeni who beat Carter. It really didn’t matter who opposed Carter because the Americans were ready to vote for any person other than Carter. Khomeni would not release them, toyed with them, insulted America even though the Americans didn’t care who Khomeni was insulting, just as long as the hostages were released unharmed.”

“But Michael, what you all missed here in the States was that Arab countries were well aware of the way Khomeni was showing America who was boss. For them this was an important lesson on how to deal with a weak United States President like Carter who didn’t have his party’s support. Remember a couple of years ago, the day Monica Lewinsky testified before the grand jury, terrorists tried to blow up American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. The same situation happens in Israel when we have a weak or divided government. What is happening here in this country now with the latest scandals that have been uncovered and talk of the American President being impeached, is what terrorist groups wait and plan for. On the Internet I’m sure that there is a Terrorism Course 101 which, advises, wait until your enemy is distracted; then hit him fast, hit him hard and then run like hell. If Congress begins impeachment proceedings, watch out for an all out attack by Hezbollah and every terrorist group. They’ll come from every direction and directions that you didn’t know even existed. They’re smart, they’re organized and as committed as the Iranians you saw this morning. We wait every day for suicide bombers in Tel Aviv who will blow up busses or kill kids hiking in the mountains of Jerusalem. We know they are planning to mount all-out attacks on Jewish communities living in European and American cities. We know terrorist cells are here in America already, but our hands are tied because the Americans have to protect their citizens, and rightly so, but unfortunately, Americans don’t see Hezbollah as an imminent threat.

When the attacks begin like the busses, no US government will do like we did in Israel to stop the slaughter. My brother Rafi, you know the one with the car dealership who lives in Bavli? He’s in his late seventies and still guards the entrance of the school his granddaughter goes to. After so many years of so called peace, we’re still forced to guard our schools, synagogues and supermarkets with Uzis, we still have to search people when they go into movie theaters or sporting events. Americans only have that inconvenience when they go through airport security.

Imagine what the fans in Chicago would say if security guards had to search them before every Bulls game or Cubs game at Wrigley field. Life’s nice and easy here. What they don’t realize is that Hezbollah wants to make the map on Musavi’s wall green where the country known as America is. The busses were done by pros and maybe this is a prelude where American communities will become the new targets. I hope like hell that I’m wrong and over reacting. Hassan Musavi is a killer, a hater of anything American or Western. He has declared war on the West, yet like ostriches that bury their heads in the sand when danger comes, America, Japan, Britain and the rest of Europe are wetting themselves trying to be his friend. The ostrich’s head is safe in the sand, unfortunately its body and neck are vulnerable. When the neck is cut off, the head is still safe underground for a short while, but without a body, the ostrich’s head soon dies. Let’s hope America is truly as fierce and as intelligent as its symbol, the bald eagle, and not a stupid ostrich.”

Michael said. “Is somebody buying a car for you? Surely it can’t take this long to get your car.”

“Underground parking my friend. Underground parking. When I die and am reincarnated, all I want is to own underground parking garages or have a contract to repair Chicago’s roads every summer. Let’s go get a cab.”

Dani shook Michael’s hand and grudgingly motioned him to sit down. Unhappy to be disturbed he showed it with body language telegraphing his profound displeasure. An imposing six four with a barrel chest and the beginnings of a beer belly, he waddled somewhat, the way large men do when their stomach begins to sag over their belt. His face showed acne scars, short jagged lines denting and crisscrossing below his cheeks and all along his neck where he shaved. When Dani’s eyes connected holding him in his gaze, Michael stared back without backing down, instantly disliking the man’s obvious manner blatantly calculated to insult and intimidate. Dani ignored Michael’s challenge continuing to look him over arrogantly as if he needed to check off who this person was and how much time he should allot to the intrusion of his valuable time. The office was small and untidy with no windows or skylight. Water seepage marked and discolored one corner from the ceiling along one side of the back wall. His desk was a mass of police files with black and white photos scattered haphazardly, some of them on top of a particular file, others clipped to the cover of a folder. Covering his walls were maps of Chicago and surrounding suburbs. Different colored pins were stuck into maps with no apparent pattern. Michael wondered if, yellow, brown, black and white pins were colors of people’s skin, or their crimes. “Thank you for not smoking signs” were strategically placed on his desk and also stuck on the side of his filing cabinet. Yellow folders were stacked in piles about four feet high in one corner of the room showing code numbers and a name, written with a black felt tip pen. Dani sat down, his body enveloping the high back chair. Sweat marks showed darkly under the arms of his shirt, collar unbuttoned, his tie loose, it hung long and thin down his shirt. Fleshy heavy dark circles under his eyes gave him a sallow tired appearance of being a worn down sixty-five year old, though in reality he was probably closer to forty. Having to work in this rat hole reasoned Michael, was probably why Dani was testy, belligerent and antagonistic. He decided to cut him some slack as he eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position and relaxed in the chair.

“Hanan, this better be of an extremely serious type of interruption that is of extreme importance if I am not to be an extremely pissed off individual. Shit has hit every fan in every room of this fucking building and every fucking ‘know it all’ is making my life a fucking misery. The busses were pros at work. We’ve got zip, no fucking clues, no fucking nothing. The bastards did it like a surgical precision military operation. They got on, within a minute killed everyone, got off and disappeared. Could have been a Militia or could have been Iranians, who knows, ‘cause we’ve nothing to go on. Fuckers’ might have come from Mars for all we know. If the fucking Militia and Iranians are working in tandem, we’re up shits creek. I’ve already called Escanaba and spoken to Ross and Dorn. Told them to be available at short notice if I needed them.”

“Get them now, Dani don’t play your infantile games with me about whether it’s your territory or the FBI’s. You damn well know, I don’t mess around so stop wasting time man, do it now.” Dani looked at Hanan, then at Michael. He pressed two intercom buttons. “We’re waiting for you.”

*

Both Ross and Dorn were the exact opposites of Dani. Short, slightly built, impeccably dressed, each entered his office looking totally relaxed. Dani was obviously not their favorite person for they pointedly ignored him when they sat down. Michael repeated his story and translated the Farsi as the tape played. When it finished, he saw them looking quizzically at each other, the only indication that the information might have importance was that Ross’s shoe was tapping rapidly while Michael was translating. Hanan informed them that he too spoke Farsi and that Michael’s translation was accurate.

Ross turned to Michael and authoritatively, almost pleasantly said, “Could you please step out and sit in the adjoining office for a while? Leave the tape recorder here.” His pleasantness cordially correct, suggested a hint of irony as if anything emanating out of Dani’s office was suspect and not worth wasting too much of their time.

Ross got up and opened a door to an adjoining office. He stood aside to let Michael walk past him into an office about the size of Dani’s. Ross closed the door, leaving Michael alone. Files were piled up in all four corners and similar maps were hanging on walls with the same mysterious colored pins.

Annoyed at not participating in the discussion going on in the next room, he had to wait forty minutes before Hanan came into the room and said that Dani wanted to see him.

*

Hanan said he was returning to his embassy now and would call Michael later. He’d requested that Perry Blatt, head of Subversives be assigned to work with Michael. Dani’d agreed, so had the FBI men. Hanan had worked with Blatt on a number of occasions in the past and felt that he’d be the best man for the job ahead.

Not knowing what to expect, Michael sat down warily opposite Dani. Dani, seemed more galvanized, charged up a typical Chicago cop that one could see on TV any night of the week. A rough man, egotistical and opinionated, a tough son of a bitch and he knew it. More important, he wanted to be sure Michael knew it. Dani, wanted results, not friends. Michael was a means to his end, necessary because for the next few hours, by some fluke, he might be able to find the Iranians.

Dani stood up, walked over with exaggerated importance to the edge of his desk and sat down heavily on some of the files, his stomach resting on one of his thighs as he leant forward to look at Michael. “Hanan vouches for you, sport, that’s good enough for me.”

Up close, Michael noticed a patch of thin spider veins on Dani’s left cheek. He’d cut himself shaving and a small spot of blood had dried on his collar. “This is our game plan, sport. Your first order of business is composite sketches, identikit. Afterwards, you’ll be hypnotized. I want to suck you dry, know everything hidden in your subconscious. I’ve assigned the head of our terrorist squad to be with you at all times until this is over. He’s my top operative in our Subversive Division. You must never be out of his sight, sport, never. This is big league, my man. This is war. Fuck up once, only once, and you’ll be back in civilian life selling electronic gizmo gadgets to little old ladies with blue hair.”