The House of the Mosque (44 page)

It also stood still for those who gardened to forget their grief and those who prepared hallowed dishes so their sorrow could be divided into more manageable portions.

The country seemed to be at rest. And yet one person, a man with a loaded gun tucked into his belt, was now riding through the desert on a camel so that he could mete out justice to the judge.

Once that had been done, the sorrow might truly come to an end. Only then would time again be set in motion and would we see how many years had passed since some had come and some had gone.

During the long period of silence, Khomeini gradually lost his memory. One day he no longer recognised even those closest to him.

Rafsanjani and Khamenei, the key men in his government, seized power and gradually forced Khomeini into the background.

Khalkhal had been the first to realise that Khomeini was becoming senile. One day he had knelt beside him and noticed with a shock that Khomeini no longer knew who he was.

Khalkhal was the only person at the top who operated independently. He was seen as an extension of Khomeini. As long as he was under Khomeini’s protection, he was powerful, but without it, he was nothing. It was time for him to step down.

Besides, the wave of executions had served its purpose. The regime had flexed its muscles sufficiently. It had driven the Iraqi occupier out of the country and eliminated the opposition. Now stability was called for. There was no more need for a judge as hated as Khalkhal.

The regime would have to find him another position, though that would be far from easy. Many people in the Mujahideen and the leftist movement knew about his role and about the heinous crimes committed on his orders. They were lying in wait, hoping to assassinate him.

If he’d been able to choose, he would have gone back to Qom to teach Islamic law at a seminary, but that was out of the question now. He knew that his mission was coming to an end, just as it had for Khomeini.

Khomeini wasn’t dead yet, but he belonged to the past. Khalkhal had no future, and the present had no need of him. He would have to go back to the past. The only question was how.

Fortunately, Khomeini’s successors did find a way to send Khalkhal back to the past. The Taliban were busy setting up an Islamic regime in neighbouring Afghanistan, using force to impose an antiquated sharia on the country.

In those days there were close ties between the Taliban and the ayatollahs in Iran. They met from time to time to discuss how to go about strengthening their position against their common enemy: the West.

The regime came up with the idea of offering Khalkhal’s services to the Taliban. After all, the fanatical Taliban would consider him an asset.

It was a perfect solution, and Khalkhal eagerly accepted it. The Taliban’s extremism appealed to him, so he packed his bags and, disguised as a merchant with a hat and a beard, took the train to the border city of Mashhad, where he spent the night at an inn. The next evening a Taliban fighter picked him up and drove him – now clad in traditional Afghan garb – across the border and on to Kabul, where the leader of the Taliban gave him a warm welcome and offered him a house.

Khalkhal’s life changed completely. He was now able to breathe more freely. Officially he worked for the Municipal Archives. In secret, however, he was an important figure in the Taliban hierarchy.

He enjoyed the anonymity of Kabul. At last things were quiet enough for him to devote more time to Islamic law. He spent his days in the ancient library of the Municipal Archives, studying the Islamic documents that had been sent to him specially from the royal libraries of Saudi Arabia. After a few months he married an Afghan woman and began to adjust to married life.

He was happy. His new life suited him. He walked freely through Kabul and went into the shops, something he’d never done before. He also spent a lot of time visiting his in-laws. No one knew about his past. To the outside world, he was an Islamic researcher writing a book on the history of Islam.

He didn’t realise that people were still looking for him and that his crimes had not been forgotten.

Shahbal was one of the people searching for Khalkhal. Unfortunately, the trail had gone cold.

Only three members of the steering committee of Shahbal’s party were left. The others had all been arrested or executed or forced to flee. During the last hurried meeting of the remaining members, Shahbal had been ordered to liquidate Khalkhal. Later it appeared that this was the last decision ever taken by his party.

Shahbal was anxious to avenge Jawad’s death. He couldn’t forget the long cold night in the mountains when he and Aqa Jaan had gone in search of a grave. The humiliation was unbearable. He had to do something, or he’d never have another peaceful night. Only after this deed had been done would he be able to pick up the thread of his life again.

Since the shooting of Ayatollah Araki, no one in the family knew where Shahbal was. Aqa Jaan thought he’d fled the country and was living in Europe or America.

But Shahbal hadn’t fled. He was still in Tehran. He’d grown a beard and was driving one of the city’s many orange taxis. It was too risky for the members of the underground movement to drive their own cars, so they generally relied on taxis to get them where they wanted to go.

Shahbal had been driving the taxi ever since he joined the editorial board of the party’s newspaper. He used it not only to get around the city, but also to earn a living.

So as not to jeopardise its security, the steering committee no longer held any meetings. Instead, the handful of members who were left occasionally exchanged information at a teahouse in Tehran’s bazaar. During one of these brief encounters, Shahbal was told that Khalkhal was living in Kabul.

‘I should have guessed!’ he said. ‘Who gave you this information?’

‘The Tudeh Party,’ answered one of the men, and he handed him a piece of paper with Khalkhal’s address on it.

The Tudeh Party had also been disbanded, after having been all but decimated by the regime. However, former members of this Russian-oriented party still had contacts with Iran’s Communist neighbour to the north, the Soviet Union.

Shahbal knew what he had to do.

During the years of the Communist regime in Afghanistan, the leftist underground groups in Iran had developed strong ties with Afghan sympathisers. After the takeover by the Taliban, most – but not all – of the Communists had fled to the Soviet Union. It took Shahbal several months to arrange to be smuggled into the country by a group of Afghan rebels.

One night he rode through the desert on a camel until he reached the Afghan border. He left the camel in the stable of an inn, then walked to a rendezvous point, where an Afghan was waiting for him on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. After they had exchanged passwords, the man showed him where to crawl under the wire and into Afghanistan.

He hopped onto the back of the man’s motorcycle and they drove for half an hour until they reached a shepherd’s hut. The Afghan went in and came back out with a set of clothes. After Shahbal had changed into the traditional Afghan garb, they drove to the nearest town, so he could catch a bus to Kabul in the morning.

Even though it was autumn, it was snowing high up in the mountains. An icy wind lashed Shahbal’s face. The man bought him some fresh bread and dates and made sure he boarded the bus.

After many gruelling hours of winding mountain roads and endless stops, the bus finally reached the centre of Kabul. Shahbal got out and went to a café to get something to eat. He ordered a bowl of thick soup and gulped down several glasses of freshly brewed tea.

He’d hardly slept for the last three nights, so he went to a small hotel near the café and crawled into bed, only waking when the desk clerk knocked on the door the next morning to make sure he was all right. Because the hotel didn’t have a bath or shower, he wandered around looking for a bathhouse. Before he’d gone far, he came across a mosque, where he managed to scrub off most of the dirt and grime. After that he had lunch in a nearby teahouse.

The Municipal Archives were only a few blocks away. The building was closed to the public, but Shahbal could see lights on inside.

Khalkhal’s office was on the top floor. He was the only person there. His desk was by the window, so every time he looked up from his work he could see people walking in the street. He went to work early in the morning like the other employees, but when the building closed at four, he worked on for another hour. He was always the last to leave.

Shahbal recognised him the moment he came out, despite his Afghan clothes. He had gained a lot of weight, but Shahbal knew it was Khalkhal from the way he walked.

Night had just fallen. Shahbal followed him, keeping safely out of sight. Khalkhal went into a bakery and came out with a fresh loaf of bread under his arm. Then he strolled over to a street vendor and bought a bunch of grapes – the last of the season. Shahbal followed him all the way home, then checked the surroundings and returned to his hotel.

The next evening, Shahbal went back to the house. He was hoping Khalkhal would be alone, but when he looked through the window, he saw him sitting on the floor with his Afghan wife, eating dinner.

Shahbal couldn’t wait. He had to act quickly, before the Afghan secret police found out he was here. He walked around for a while, to allow Khalkhal time to finish his meal.

The next time he looked through the window, he saw the woman in the kitchen. There was a light on upstairs. It was now or never, so he crawled through the window and tiptoed towards the kitchen, but the woman, who was doing the washing-up, must have heard him, because she turned. Her eyes widened in fright when she saw a man with a gun standing in the doorway. Before she could scream, however, Shahbal grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Don’t scream!’ he whispered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Listen to me. Your husband is an Iranian criminal, who ordered the execution of hundreds of innocent people. Don’t make a sound, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand my Persian?’

The terrified woman nodded.

‘I don’t have much time. I’m going to tie you up and put some tape over your mouth. If you move, I will shoot you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Again, the woman nodded.

‘Good,’ he said, and he tied her up and left her sitting on the kitchen floor. Then he tiptoed up the stairs to the room where he’d seen the light.

At the top of the stairs he peered through the crack in the door, holding his gun firmly in his hand. Khalkhal, wearing his reading glasses, was sitting at a desk, reading a book and taking notes.

Shahbal opened the door softly and went in. Khalkhal, thinking it was his wife with the tea, didn’t look up. But when he didn’t hear her voice, he took off his glasses, turned around and saw an Afghan pointing a gun at him.

‘Don’t move!’ Shahbal ordered.

The moment he heard the Persian words, Khalkhal knew that his attacker wasn’t an Afghan. Dumbstruck, he stared at Shahbal.

Shahbal took off his Afghan cap. ‘Mohammad Al Khalkhal! Allah’s so-called judge!’ he said, his voice as cold as ice. ‘I have been ordered by the Underground Court to execute you!’

Khalkhal recognised Shahbal and tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. He knew that the end had come. No one could help him now. He mumbled a few words.

‘What did you say?’ Shahbal asked.

Khalkhal pointed to the glass of water on the table.

‘Go ahead,’ Shahbal said.

His hand trembling, Khalkhal took a sip of water.

‘May I stand and face Mecca?’ he asked, in a flat voice.

‘Yes, you may.’

Khalkhal stood up. He took one step in the direction of the window and, turning towards Mecca in the waning light, began to chant:

Shahbal fired. The bullet struck Khalkhal in the chest and sent him reeling. He clutched the windowsill for support and went on chanting:

Shahbal fired two more shots. Khalkhal’s hand jerked up and he let go of the sill, then keeled over. As he lay writhing on the floor, he chanted almost unintelligibly:

Shahbal raced down the stairs and quickly untied the woman. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Run to your family!’

The woman fled the house.

Shahbal let himself out, hurried down to the corner and turned left. Then he slowed his steps and walked calmly through the dark alleys to the centre of Kabul. There he bought a loaf of freshly baked bread and a bunch of grapes, then boarded the late-night bus to Pakistan.

The bus drove through the dimly lit streets. Kabul was beautiful. One day he would come back to this mysterious city.

A
lef Lam Mim Ra.
Years went by, and the house’s sorrow grew like the trees in the garden.

The American hostages had long ago returned to their own homes and their own beds. Khomeini had died.

The war had ended, and America – having failed to achieve its objective through Saddam – had grounded its spy planes.

The migratory birds still flocked to the city and flew over the house of the mosque, but since no grain had been put out for them, they continued on their way.

Aqa Jaan’s daughters were living in Tehran. They had been quietly married during the frantic years of the war and the executions. Ensi had given birth to a son, whom she named Jawad in honour of her brother. She came home from time to time with her husband and laid the baby in her mother’s arms.