City of Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

despite the fall. He bit into the vial. A burst of liquid oozed out. Nine seconds. That is how long they told him it would take. Now it was at least fifteen seconds for sure, or does time slow when you die? Dariush squeezed his eyes tight to concentrate on death. But he was still very much alive. At least thirty seconds. Maybe the Group had been out by a few seconds; they seemed to be out about a lot of things.
    ‘I said get into the back of the van!’
    He opened his eyes. Still alive. Surely it was over a minute now. He took a tentative step forward.
    ‘He’s on drugs. Seriously, he’s a total freak.’
    He did not die on the way to the police station. Not only were their maps old and out of date; so was their cyanide. It must have degraded. Expired. Unlike him, who faced years of torture and rape.
    At the police station, they took his handcuffs off and locked him in a small room. Somehow the police had not even frisked him. At least he had gone back to the gun-runner and ordered a hand grenade. It was tucked into his trousers. The minute the officer shut the door on him, he pulled the pin out. Only it went off before he had time to raise it to his head. He saw his own hand fly across the room. And then he fainted.
    The judge looked weary. There was a time when he would send hundreds of these idiots to the firing squads or the noose; when the weight of his authority was encapsulated in four short, neat syllables:
hokm-e edam
, death penalty. He looked at Dariush standing in front of him. He was shaking with fear. He had a bandaged stump instead of a right hand. His lawyers said he had been brainwashed. He had repented. He had not killed anyone; the bullet had simply grazed the side of the ex-police chief’s neck. The judge fiddled with his biro as he delivered the verdict.
    Fatemi Street, midtown Tehran, several years later
    The halogen strip light buzzes overhead, bathing everyone in a vicious blue light that picks out the hollows of cheeks and darkens circles under eyes. Three families are sitting on plastic chairs in silence, in a shabby office block. Nobody has touched the small cups of tea laid out on the plastic table. Their eyes are fixed on the door. Dariush walks in, wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt. Three men, heads slightly bowed, eyes scanning the room, follow him. The sobbing begins. The three men are soon encircled. Mothers clutch their sons to their chests; one man sinks to his knees; a sister strokes her brother’s hair; a father simply buries his head in his hands, wrists wet with tears. One of the three men has been away for over twenty years. Over and over again he whispers one word:
sorry
.
    Dariush watches from the corner of the room, cradling a crude plastic hand that has been attached to his stump. He has witnessed many such reunions, but he still cries every time. The three men he led into the room are former members of the MEK; now they are deserters, like Dariush. The men begin to recount their time with the Group. As the stories of brainwashing and regret tumble, Dariush silently nods. He remembers the beatings and the public confessionals at Camp Ashraf; his comrade was forced to confess to masturbating, which was banned. He remembers the isolation, of not being allowed out of a small compound, and the strict segregation of the sexes – one of the returnees Dariush had helped had not been allowed to be with his wife for fifteen years, even though they were both at Camp Ashraf together. He remembers families of members turning up at the camp, begging to see their loved ones. He remembers being part of the MEK cult.
    After his botched assassination attempt, Dariush was sent to a military hospital, where doctors and nurses tended to him with care until he was healthy enough for prison. He had been given a life sentence. It was reduced to eight years. He spent just under four years in Evin prison. He was in the political wing and Dariush’s cellmates were dissidents and students. It was