The Screaming Eagles (34 page)

The buildings were perfectly designed killing areas where hundreds of thousands of cattle were slaughtered, sometimes as many as a thousand a day. Cattle buyers from all over the States bought their herds from cattle auctions then sent them by rail to the Stockyards. The trains came from every direction, traveling day and night, stopping only to take on coal and change crews, for Chicago was the end of the line. Speed was important, as cattle lost weight while they were being transported. The quicker they were slaughtered, the heavier they’d be. Brokers were paid by weight of the carcass, so for every pound of weight the cattle lost the brokers lost a dollar or more.

The whole complex had been designed to speed up off loading, killing, stripping of carcasses and delivery to butchers or wholesalers so that finally brokers could be paid their commissions. Speed was of the essence. Sometimes they were made to work all night, and the brokers forced to pay his men overtime. He knew by heart the various train-schedules and prepared his crews in advance so they were ready as the cattle trucks eased their way into the dozens of holding pens on the eastside of the buildings.

The cattle knew they were going to die. From a long distance away, the animals smelled death. They smelled blood as railway cars backed into off-loading ramps. This was when they were at there most dangerous, when they kicked and bucked, eyes bulging, tongues hanging out trying to gore the handlers who forced them to leave the safety of the car. As a youngster he’d used sharp pointed, heavy poles to keep them moving down the ramps. In later years they were given cattle prods.

During the hot summer months some cattle died from suffocation due to overcrowding or lack of water in the cars. On arrival he’d have a special crew haul them out of the cars with winches as speedily as possible so that thetrains wouldn’t be delayed. Delays meant that trains were held down line. This wasted time. Time meant that the cattle were losing weight.

The dead beasts, stinking and already bloated, were stacked alongside each other in their special pens until jobbers could come and cut them up for offal, then load them into their wagons or trucks. The dead cattle had to be washed down constantly with buckets of thick salt water until the jobbers arrived so as to keep away hairy blue flies, some the size of a man’s thumbnail that swarmed in dark clusters on the bodies as soon as the salt solution dried.

Leon directed each slaughter crew when and how to start the rack and pulleys that lifted and hauled the freshly killed carcasses onto meat hooks by their back legs, so that blood could pour cleanly out of their severed necks. He positioned them six at a time on conveyors in such a way so that the rivers of fresh blood gushed down the stainless steel gullies until the pumping of blood from the carcass finally stopped. The noise was deafening as gallons of blood streamed downward into sewers, roaring as it bubbled and frothed, gathering momentum, finally splashing into holding tanks like a heavy stone as it crashed into the sewer walls.

He was a true professional, the best in the business, running his shifts with military precision and always reaching his quota.

Those were the glory days.

Unfortunately, progress had overtaken them all. Like steam engines and the cattle, his beloved buildings were now just memories of a bygone era to an old man who sat at the window every night and remembered.

It was nearly two o’clock, time to turn up the sound. Leon took another sip of tea as he noticed a dark van with only its parking lights on, driving slowly away from the number two building. The van turned onto Forty-seventh Street heading east. Only then did it turn on its lights.

It went past his house, beginning to gather speed. The windows were tinted he couldn’t see either the driver or passenger. He noted the last three numbers on the numberplate writing them on a napkin.

A van coming out of the stockyards at this time of the night could only mean someone was up to no good, probably a drug dealer. He’d watch the news tomorrow and see if he should contact the police.

In the distance he heard a dog barking. The dog didn’t sound angry or menacing. Reaching for the remote, Leon turned up the sound.

*

Keeping the speedometer at fifty-five, Michael drove south on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Though it was two a.m., the forty-foot semis whizzed past him crowding all three lanes and trailing black smoke from their exhausts above the driver’s cabins as they jostled for position. For them this was makeup time, the best time to travel, when there were hardly any cars or traffic jams on the roads.

Deep in thought, Jalal was quiet, not speaking, staring at the road in front of him.

Michael wondered what was on his mind, knowing that the man who had hanged his father, killed his people and was planning to wipe out the entire Kurdish nation was tied up and sleeping in an animal’s cage a few feet behind him.

For Jalal, making Sadegh talk and eventually killing him was something personal. For Michael, however, learning what plans this man and others had already put into motion to destroy the economy of the States, was another war that he’d now volunteered to fight. It was personal in the same way as the Six-Day War and the war against terrorists who tried to destroy Israel. In his mind Sadegh was now consigned to being nothing other than a terrorist and Michael planned to kill him not as a person he’d known in the past but as a parasite that needed to be squashed. Those had been Sadegh’s own words when he hanged Dara.

Michael’s questioning would focus on finding out which American politicians, businessmen, and corporations as well as other countries were to be part of the scheme.

He was at peace with his decision to torture and kill this man. He had no alternative. The rule of law and order in the States would be stacked heavily against Michael, not on his side, no matter how strong the case might be, or how urgent the danger. It sickened him.

The exit sign for the Sky Way toll road loomed ahead, Michael signaled, moving into the right lane to take an off ramp. After paying the toll, he saw that Jalal had fallen asleep. He was still two hours away from the farm. The farm had saved his life.

His accountant had advised him to establish a company trust fund to take advantage of tax loopholes allowed in the seventies set up by Congress to combat the recession. The seventies were the heady times of making money and he’d bought through his trust, two forty acre farms in the remote hill country of Michigan and paid the trust fees ten years in advance putting the deeds into a strong box he rented at the bank. The property taxes had been estimated and a special interest bearing account opened at the bank that allowed his bank to withdraw money each year for ten years to pay the taxes. Jennifer had been a bank teller in those days and on one of his trips when he came to Chicago, they’d spent a torrid weekend together. It had been a delicious sexual experience for them both, but nothing had come of it romantically. Normally men and women tend to drift away from each if sex didn’t continue. However, surprisingly they’d remained good friends, two free spirits that enjoyed each other’s friendship with no strings attached. Whenever he came to Chicago, they’d have lunch together or do a movie. Persian history and its culture fascinated Jennifer. Michael had always brought her books and old maps and anything he could find in the bazaar that he thought she’d enjoy.

When he lost all his money and came to Chicago, he’d gone to the Billman Bank to draw from the thousand dollars that was all he had left in his account. This money was all he had between himself and starvation. Jennifer by now had married, with three children and a fourth on the way. She’d been promoted to chief of loans and securities. He’d taken her to lunch and told her what had happened in Iran. Tearfully, she’d held his hand and promised to discuss with her husband how they could help him. She’d paid for lunch and when he took her back to the bank, she’d called her husband to ask if he would meet Michael and discuss job possibilities. The appointment had been set for the following week. Michael had been close to tears himself as he wallowed in humiliating self-pity. Two days later he received a call from Jennifer. She’d researched his numerous accounts over the years in case there was interest owing to him and had not found any. However, she’d come across a strong box that he’d paid in advance and she wanted to know if he was aware of this. In his misery and depression he’d totally forgotten about the strong box as well as the deeds to the farms he found when he opened the box. The farms hadn’t been worth much when he’d bought them and he couldn’t understand Jennifer’s excitement. Jennifer made him sit down at her desk and began telephoning various Realtors in Michigan. One of the farms had two hundred yards of beachfront overlooking Lake Michigan. When it was sold, Michael had become a multi millionaire and though Jennifer had refused at first, Michael had set up college funds for her four children. He’d kept the smaller farm and whenever he could find the time, he’d drive there. It was his own private place, a place to heal his soul spiritually, to escape and get away. It gave him a chance to regroup mentally, re-energize, relaxed in the knowledge that no one knew that this place existed. He’d vowed never to bring anyone to his farm. Today would be the first time.

*

As he neared the turn off to the farm, Michael thought of the strange series of events which had brought the people in the van together, two of them the fiercest of antagonists all their lives. Both came from countries that had been at war with each other for thousands of years.

One of them would die and it would take place thousands of miles from their homelands.

Michael leant over and touched Jalal’s shoulder. Instantaneously, he was awake. “We’ve arrived.”

*

The road wound around a small ridge and Michael had driven along the dried-up riverbed until he came to the foot of a small hill. The sun was still below the line of the hills and his van was parked under a small group of trees near the mouth of a cave.

With his mouth still sealed with masking tape, Sadegh wakened, watching them carry the boxes, plastic bags and large brown bags into the cave. They’d placed his cage on the grass near a patch of pungent flowers growing wild. Though the sun was yet to rise, a chill lingered in the air and his palms were sweating, his loathing more pronounced now as he reflected on how they’d trapped him. Trying to keep calm, he maneuvered, testing for weaknesses where they’d tied his legs and arms. His wrists were held tightly by the handcuffs. Knees bent, he tried kicking at the door of the cage but couldn’t budge it. His mind was in turmoil, trying to find the bargaining key that he could use so that they’d free him. Every person had a price. He knew that his only hope of surviving was to offer an attractive enough price. Once he found what the price would need to be he would easily exploit the weakness of these stupid amateurs. He’d recognized Michael immediately for he’d kept him under surveillance ever since he’d arrived in Chicago. Sadegh considered Michael an insurance policy in case one day he could use him. Maybe Michael, who he had saved in Teheran, would be his ticket to freedom. Just offer him enough money?then greed would take over. The Kurd would be more difficult. He decided to let them make their demands, then he would concentrate on finding the weaker of the two as they negotiated. It didn’t matter how many millions they wanted he had more than enough. He’d pay them and be sure to make it well worth their while to free him. To make doubly sure, on his release, they’d get an added bonus. He’d make the bonus much more than they had asked for, as an additional incentive not to harm him. Confident that he was in no real danger, he relaxed and waited for them to finish. Revenge would come later.

He’d hunt them down to the ends of the earth using intelligence agencies, governments and even bounty hunters if need be. There would be no place to hide from his ferocious vengeance. He wouldn’t have them killed; rather, he would make sure they were brought to him alive. He would kill them slowly, personally. He knew that Michael had two sons. He’d find them and make Michael watch while he tortured them to death. He’d do the same to the Kurd’s family. Only then would he begin to kill Michael and the Kurd. He would have a medical doctor treat them every hour so as to prolong their miserable lives for as long as possible. He’d offer the doctor bonuses for each day he could keep them alive. Sadegh chuckled to himself. Why had he never thought of employing a doctor before? It would be enjoyable. At long last he had found a way to prolong “the meal of three courses.” Sadegh lay in the cage for over an hour before they came for him. Without a word they picked up the cage and carried it into the cave. Hurricane lamps had been lit inside the cave, which was the size of a large room. Plastic sheets covered the floor, and four metal stakes had been hammered into the ground thorough the plastic. Terror was a knot in Sadegh’s stomach. This was not what he had expected. With his mouth gagged, how could he negotiate with them? He tried to attract their attention with muffled shouts. When they didn’t respond, he tried using his eyes, blinking them frantically as he implored the men to look at him.

They opened the cage door, pulled him out, and tied thick rope around each wrist and each ankle. He struggled with all of his might, sweat pouring down his face, but was unable to move. Their grip was too strong. He was turned onto his left side. First the left wrist was tied to the stake, then his left ankle. One of them unlocked the handcuff of his right wrist, but before he could pull it away, the other one had jerked the rope, slamming his wrist hard against the furthest stake. In a few seconds, his wrist was tightly secured to the stake. The other handcuff was unlocked and taken off his wrist. They tied his ankle to the fourth stake. Using a knife, they cut off all his clothes and put them in a plastic bag.

Jalal sat behind him on the floor and started to speak. “Sadegh Muzahedi, Milton Leffeld, it does not matter which name you use, you are one and the same person, a vicious killer. All your life you have inflicted pain on others and enjoyed doing it. Now I will inflict that same pain on you. I do not trust your answers when I first start to torture you, so I will inflict so much pain over the next few days that your mind will forget how to lie. When I find that you give me the same answers again and again when half your body has been eaten away, then I will know that you are telling the truth. Until that time, I will use antibiotics to keep you alive. I know how you enjoyed to torture people personally, and I wonder how great your own threshold of pain will be. In the next few days I will find out.”