Banquo's Ghosts by Richard Lowry

Author:Richard Lowry [Lowry, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Vanguard Press
Published: 2011-03-04T17:55:13.938000+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Injun’ Country

They left the All-Iran Burka Company at dawn. In a curious way, Johnson felt sorry to leave. The place had been strangely comfortable, an unexpected refuge in a dangerous land. The cruddy food, the whiskey, watching Yossi’s laptop magic lantern show, the camaraderie—and what comrades. Wallets could simply reach out and demand the cavalry come and get them. The 10th Mountain Division, Second Battalion, Delta Company. It made Johnson feel important to be with them, like he had made it past the velvet rope line of U.S. national security. Even the wormer didn’t seem to bother him.

He balked for a moment before descending the steel stairs on his swollen feet. But he managed to hobble along, gripping the railing for support. Marjorie promised this day’s travel would be easy, and he had no reason to doubt her. Tomorrow, she warned him, would be harder.

Wallets, Marjorie, and Johnson donned their head-to-toe burkas before passing through the metal door to the alley. Yossi waited for them in the car, the engine running. They all piled in. Back out the alley and into the streets of Kermanshah. Here on the outskirts of the city in the industrial district, the town was just coming awake. Buses belched black exhaust and paused for passengers, sitting by the curb at the start of their routes. Small street-corner cafés were already open, waiters or shop owners wiping off tables and setting up chairs, Saturday till sundown, still Sabbath, a big coffee day. As they drove east toward a line of hills, the two-way street broadened to a four-lane highway, split by a concrete median. The Turk gunned the accelerator, and the car hurtled forward.

Inside his stifling black hood, Johnson tried to watch the passing scene. He had the impression of low stucco walls, satellite dishes, the occasional storied public housing project of poured concrete. But as his breath blew back in his face, the sights fled across his vision, and all he could think of was tearing off this ugly hood. How could anyone live like this? Why would anyone want to? Only out of fear, subservience, shame—all safe under a cloak of anonymity.

They sailed along for a bit, then pitched forward as the car squealed to a halt. Johnson tried to peer through the little slit, but Marjorie hissed at him, “Be still!” They had stopped at some kind of checkpoint, a traffic barrier across the road. Armed men barred the car from moving front and back. Marjorie’s voice again in a loud whisper, “Be ready to get out of the car.”

Sure enough, one of the armed guards at the driver’s side window began barking orders at Yossi, and before ten words were exchanged, the Turk grunted something in Farsi: “Baleh! Baleh! ” like Okay, okay, no problem! Then turned to them in the back, ordering, “Moshkeli nist! ” meaning, “Get out!” Clearly, the armed guards didn’t want to touch the “women,” holding the car door open for them and allowing them to stand in a small group beside the car while they searched it.

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