Read Online The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Mirza, Thom Lemmons
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Historical, Islam, War & Military, Political, Christian, Cultural Heritage, Judaism, Iranian Revolution, Religious Persecution
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felt the stomach-churning malaise of apprehension. No one knew what Khomeini’s first acts would be. It was within his power as Imam to declare a jihad , if he chose. Against whom would the new de facto ruler of Iran direct his first assault? The Christians? The Baha’i? The Jews? For all his faults, the Shah had been able to protect the religious and ethnic minorities in Iran. But he was gone. They watched as their new leader, clad in a black camel-hair robe and turban, delivered an emotional speech to a huge crowd gathered at one of the city’s largest cemeteries.
“In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate,” Khomeini began, standing beside the grave of one of the hundreds of Shiites slain during the uprising. Pointing to the gravestone, he shouted at the admiring throng, “Is this the meaning of ‘human rights’?”
The crowd’s roar filtered through the speaker of Ezra’s television set, filling the room. Khomeini was making an obvious reference to the issue that had helped alienate the Shah from his American protectors.
“Never again,” the Ayatollah continued, “will an innocent Muslim die at the hands of the traitors of Islam.” Another huge cheer ripped through the increasingly zealous crowd. “Never again will this land be ruled by infidel ideologies. Never again will Iran be ruled by a monarch.”
“I would not want to be sitting where Bakhtiar is today,” remarked another of Ezra’s guests. Appointed prime minister by the Shah before his departure, Shahpur Bakhtiar was charged with the hopeless task of seeking a coalition with the antiroyalist factions. The most optimistic gave him weeks; the more realistic allowed scant days before the tides of anarchy swept aside the last vestige of the Pahlavi regime. Already the crowds in the streets chanted death slogans with Bakhtiar’s name attached. “He will be brought down for no reason other than his association with the Shah,” agreed another. “And for this crime he will have no defense.”
“I have heard people say that the army is defecting en masse ,” said Moosa, seated by his father. “Barracks are being looted. Rifles are for sale in the covered bazaar at ridiculously low prices, and there is no control whatsoever.”
“The war has only begun,” mused another. “With the Shah gone, the mujaiedeen and Tudeh will be trying to carve their own pieces from the corpse of this country. We have not seen the end of the bloodshed, by any means.”
Another cheer erupted from the crowd on the television screen, as a glum silence fell over the group gathered in the house of Ezra Solaiman.
Ameer Nijat totaled the column of numbers he had written on the notepad, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he slowly drew several lines beneath the final sum. Solaiman indeed had a gold mine. As the druggist had correctly calculated, the increase in the market value of his inventory alone was enough to return a decent dividend to a purchaser such as himself.
Nijat leaned back in the chair behind his desk, looking up at the ceiling, which needed paint. He lived in a modest five-room house in an average neighborhood. Years ago he had decided that displaying one’s wealth was an invitation to those less willing to work for riches than steal them. But he was a man of more than modest means.
He had started as an apprentice to a printer in Tahbriz. Through the years of hard work and shrewd dealings, he had built up a very profitable printing business of his own, selling it for a large profit at the beginning of the oil boom of the early 1970s. Not that he had allowed his money to remain idle. He had speculated in oil futures and precious metals—both with tremendous success. He knew when to seize an opportunity, and he sensed the Nasser Pharmacy was a plum ripe for the picking.
He reviewed in his mind the salient facts of the business. Solaiman, a Jew, wished to sell his business. The price he asked was reasonable. The inventory, the sales
“In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate,” Khomeini began, standing beside the grave of one of the hundreds of Shiites slain during the uprising. Pointing to the gravestone, he shouted at the admiring throng, “Is this the meaning of ‘human rights’?”
The crowd’s roar filtered through the speaker of Ezra’s television set, filling the room. Khomeini was making an obvious reference to the issue that had helped alienate the Shah from his American protectors.
“Never again,” the Ayatollah continued, “will an innocent Muslim die at the hands of the traitors of Islam.” Another huge cheer ripped through the increasingly zealous crowd. “Never again will this land be ruled by infidel ideologies. Never again will Iran be ruled by a monarch.”
“I would not want to be sitting where Bakhtiar is today,” remarked another of Ezra’s guests. Appointed prime minister by the Shah before his departure, Shahpur Bakhtiar was charged with the hopeless task of seeking a coalition with the antiroyalist factions. The most optimistic gave him weeks; the more realistic allowed scant days before the tides of anarchy swept aside the last vestige of the Pahlavi regime. Already the crowds in the streets chanted death slogans with Bakhtiar’s name attached. “He will be brought down for no reason other than his association with the Shah,” agreed another. “And for this crime he will have no defense.”
“I have heard people say that the army is defecting en masse ,” said Moosa, seated by his father. “Barracks are being looted. Rifles are for sale in the covered bazaar at ridiculously low prices, and there is no control whatsoever.”
“The war has only begun,” mused another. “With the Shah gone, the mujaiedeen and Tudeh will be trying to carve their own pieces from the corpse of this country. We have not seen the end of the bloodshed, by any means.”
Another cheer erupted from the crowd on the television screen, as a glum silence fell over the group gathered in the house of Ezra Solaiman.
Ameer Nijat totaled the column of numbers he had written on the notepad, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he slowly drew several lines beneath the final sum. Solaiman indeed had a gold mine. As the druggist had correctly calculated, the increase in the market value of his inventory alone was enough to return a decent dividend to a purchaser such as himself.
Nijat leaned back in the chair behind his desk, looking up at the ceiling, which needed paint. He lived in a modest five-room house in an average neighborhood. Years ago he had decided that displaying one’s wealth was an invitation to those less willing to work for riches than steal them. But he was a man of more than modest means.
He had started as an apprentice to a printer in Tahbriz. Through the years of hard work and shrewd dealings, he had built up a very profitable printing business of his own, selling it for a large profit at the beginning of the oil boom of the early 1970s. Not that he had allowed his money to remain idle. He had speculated in oil futures and precious metals—both with tremendous success. He knew when to seize an opportunity, and he sensed the Nasser Pharmacy was a plum ripe for the picking.
He reviewed in his mind the salient facts of the business. Solaiman, a Jew, wished to sell his business. The price he asked was reasonable. The inventory, the sales
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