Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [73]
“I’m sorry if you don’t get much sleep because of me,” I said with a smile. I expected one of his sarcastic responses. But he sounded serious.
“The fun is over!” He pushed me harder with every step. “Islamic kindness is over.” His breath was heavy on my neck. “You little spy, we will show you what we can do with you. You are going to see what we are capable of.” He shoved me inside a room where people were speaking in hushed tones. The smell of sweat, feet, and rosewater was strong.
Rosewater sat me down and pushed my head close to a table. “Keep your head like this,” he said.
A few moments later, the room erupted in a cacophony of greetings.
“Salaam, Haj Agha!”
“Hello, Haj Agha!”
Typically Haj Agha is a term of respect used for someone who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, but among Iranian officials, it signifies seniority. Haj Agha took my hand.
“Salaam, Mr. Bahari. Do you know why you are here?” He sounded like a high-ranking Iranian official.
“No, sir,” I answered. “I’m still not even sure why I was arrested in the first place.”
“Well, we know exactly why you’re here,” Haj Agha said.
“But, sir—,” I said, raising my head to speak. Rosewater’s beefy hand forced it back toward the table.
“I told you to keep your head down!”
“Whatever you do, keep your blindfold on, Mr. Bahari,” Haj Agha said. “Do not even open your eyes.” He was giving me this warning, I thought, because he did not want to be recognized. Maybe I was correct, and he was a regime official.
“Is the car here yet?” Haj Agha asked someone in the room. Then he addressed me again. “Mr. Bahari, you’re suspected of espionage. You have been in contact with a number of known spies.” He named a few of my friends, mostly Iranian artists and intellectuals in exile. “A car is coming to take you to the counterespionage unit. There, you will be interrogated more … shall we say, aggressively? Sometimes up to fifteen hours a day. We are done playing games with you. It is time for you to talk.” I could sense him moving closer to me. “Our agents there are prepared to subject you to every tactic necessary. The investigation can take between four and six years.” He paused. “If you are found innocent, you will, of course, be freed and we will offer you our apologies. But if you are found guilty, you could be sentenced to death.”
My heart sank with every word. This was the end of my magical thinking.
This prison, these people, these questions—this would be my life for the foreseeable future. I tried to quiet my mind, but I felt as if the earth had opened and I was being swallowed by it, powerless against everything. The black velvet blindfold became damp, and I didn’t know if it was with my sweat or my tears.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Haj Agha asked.
A cup of tea? “Yes, please. Thank you.” I could barely get out the words. I was lost in thoughts about my mother, about Paola, about our unborn child. How could I have put them in this situation? I felt the beginnings of a migraine creeping slowly up the back of my neck.
“Unless …,” said Haj Agha.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you would be interested in a deal, Mr. Bahari.”
“A deal?” I felt the blood move through my body again. Of course. I knew exactly what kind of a deal he wanted to make. I thought of all my friends who had been forced to confess on television. They were all freed eventually, and the dream of being with my family again was my only consolation as I remembered their tired and broken faces as they’d read their scripted confessions.
“Yes, a deal,” said Haj Agha. I could hear the smile in his voice. “We believe in Islamic kindness, Mr. Bahari. I’ve heard that Mrs. Paola is pregnant. Is that true?”
Hearing Paola’s name come out of this man’s mouth made me want to jump up and strangle him. “Yes, sir,” I said, through gritted teeth.