City of Lies Read Online Free PDF

members had recognized his dedication and seen that he was prepared to die in the fight against the Islamic Republic. It did not matter that he had only been a member for a short while, it did not work like that. There were some who had been with the Group for years, had given their money (which they were all expected to do), had offered their services, yet they never progressed up the ranks, never got near the inner sanctum. You had to be prepared to give
all
of yourself to the Group. It was about discipline, sacrifice and loyalty. The Group had sent Dariush from America to Paris, where he met even higher-ranking MEK members. Everybody was impressed by him. He had thrown himself into ideological training, submitting detailed reports on his feelings for the Rajavis and learning their speeches off by heart. That is when it was decided Dariush should be sent to Camp Ashraf in Iraq to prepare for a mission.
    Life at Camp Ashraf was strict. His training was intense: handling guns, using hand grenades, making bombs, stalking victims, using bugs and surveillance equipment, shooting targets. The sexes were segregated. Lustful thoughts were reported. Dariush attended obligatory group ‘confessional’ sessions to cleanse the mind; they made Dariush feel closer to his brothers and sisters. There were many like him, who had cut ties with their families. They spoke continually about the wide support they had in the motherland. Nobody seemed to know how many active members were living in Iran, but they assured Dariush there was a big, active network and that once there he would have a dedicated team helping him.
    It was the day of the assassination. Dariush had started the morning doing breathing exercises to calm his nerves. It was all planned. He had been following the ex-police chief for weeks. The first morning after the public holidays, he had left the house at dawn, wearing tatty, ragged clothes and a pair of scuffed shoes. He arrived at the ex-police chief’s road just after five in the morning and squatted on the side. Nobody noticed him.
    Every day the ex-police chief would drive himself to a small office – unlike when he was the police chief and was driven in a bullet-proof car complete with a security convoy. Dariush thought the hit would be easy. He would strike as his target drove back home from work, in peak traffic.
    Kian had found a getaway driver, a young mechanic who was a new member, itching for word of his loyalty to reach the Rajavis. As they left the apartment, the getaway driver put his hand on Dariush’s shoulder, ‘I’m ready to die for the cause.’ Dariush squeezed his hand, ‘So am I.’
    On time, the ex-police chief stepped out of the building and into his car. They followed him. His car began to slow as it reached a pile of traffic ahead. Dariush tapped the driver on the back – their signal. He drove up behind the police chief’s car, up very close; Dariush could see the hairs on the police chief’s neck through the window. He shot. He saw glass shatter. He looked back, the AK- 47 still in his hand. There was a splatter of blood. The chief was slumped forward.
Was he still moving?
Then Dariush was in the air. On the ground, with a thud. He could not breathe. Men were pushing down on him, pressing his head into the tar-soaked gravel of the road. His body throbbed. His vision was blurred. How long did it take for him to understand what had happened? A minute, two minutes, ten minutes? He could not say.
    He pieced it together: something had hit the motorbike and he had been catapulted in the air. Three police officers had jumped onto him. He had wet himself. He could not see his driver. When the cops made him stand on his feet, guns trained at his head, he knew it was over. The Group had told him:
if they catch you, they will torture you mercilessly, perhaps for years. They will rape you
. He remembered the photos. That is why he had the cyanide capsule in his mouth. It was still lodged there,