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Return of the Bride
By Micheal Maxwell
The harsh bite of Turkish cigarettes and hookah smoke filled the small café and burned Sear’s eyes. His right hand rested gently on the pocket of his khaki jacket, his left hand stretched out flat on the tabletop. He hated waiting. He’d spent the day sleeping in a filthy hotel waiting for this meeting. Fifteen minutes slipped into the river of time since he arrived and the thick black mud they called coffee was now cold.
Sear had made the trip from Abadan during the night. He’d crossed the Arvand River as the last burning rays of sun cast long-fingered shadows across the water. A bone-thin sliver of a man, with rotten stubs for teeth and a milk-white eye, took Sear across the river for two packs of Marlboros and a twenty dollar bill. His small boat took in water and smelled of rotten fish and diesel. No questions asked; no conversation made. They parted without a word.
At dawn an unsuspecting driver provided Sear a lift to Al-Qurnah in the back of his truck. He had slipped under the heavy canvas as the truck pulled away from a small warehouse, beside a rickety dock, on the edge of the riverside village that didn’t deserve even the smallest speck on a map. Al-Qurnah was about seventy-five kilometers from Basrah, a bullet-pocked scar of a town left nearly abandoned after the Iran/Iraq war.
Tradition had it that Al-Qurnah is the site of the Garden of Eden. Sear smiled at the thought and credited someone’s twisted idea of humor. The desolation of the place was severe even for the Middle East. With all His choices, Sear figured God surely must have chosen somewhere else for the site of creation.
Reaching back with his left hand, Sear felt the wall behind him. It was warm and chalky. Glancing around the room, the silence that accompanied his arrival was beginning to crack, and interrupted conversations restarted, but the eyes of the café patrons never left Sear.
Forty-five minutes after he arrived, Sear watched as two men entered the café, took in every table, and then walked straight toward where he sat.
“Phillip Sear?”
Sear nodded and motioned for the two men to sit down.
“Where is she?” Sear asked in near-native Farsi.
“Not far,” the smaller of the two men said.
The two men smelled of cheap aftershave and body odor. Sweat ringed their collars and armpits, and both were in need of a shave.
The smaller man pulled a Polaroid photo from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table toward Sear.
Sear picked up the photo and tried not to wince as he looked into the eyes of his brother’s wife. She was stripped to the waist and holding a newspaper in front of her bare breasts. The headline showed that she was still alive three days ago when the President visited the Chancellor of Germany. She showed obvious signs of bruising and both eyes were blackened.
“Where is she?” Sear said, trying to repress his rage.
“As I said, near.”
“Not good enough.”
“Within a short walk.” The smaller man gave Sear a forced smile.
Through his khaki jacket Sear squeezed the grip of his SIG P-229. Not now he thought, soon.
“Take me to her.” Sear’s voice came out dry and graveled.
“In time.” The small man waved to the waiter. “First we will enjoy your hospitality.”
Sear turned the photograph face down and pushed it back across the table. He tried to erase the picture of his brother’s wife from his mind. Try as he might, he could not bring up the image of the wedding photo that hung on the wall of their small apartment in Lansing.
Mahvash Eliaszadeh had been a doctoral candidate in Economics at the University of Michigan when Sear’s brother Aaron met her. They married a year and a half later. Sear missed the wedding and had a row of crosshatch scars from being stitched up in a Sudanese mud hut as his excuse.
They were happy, in love, and celebrating their graduation when they accepted a gift of a trip to Iran to visit Mahvash’s parents. A week later Mahvash was kidnapped from in front of her parent’s home. Four days later, Aaron was dead. Attempting to rescue him had proven fatal.
The last time Sear spoke with his brother, Aaron begged him to find Mahvash and send her back to him. Since their parents died, Sear had disappointed his little brother too many times: missed soccer games, graduations, even his wedding.
Sear stared across the table at the only thing that stood between him and keeping his last promise. This time he would be where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be there, and would not let Aaron down.
“Parviz, what will you have?” the small man asked his bulky partner.
“Tea.”
“Would you like a fresh coffee, Mr. Phillip Sear?”
“I want to see my brother’s wife,” Sear said, leaning forward.
“Careful, Yousef; I think he is not happy with you!” Parviz laughed and gave Sear a mocking imitation of a dog snapping at him.
“After our refreshment, there is time. You will see her soon.”
After several minutes, the waiter brought a tray, served two cups of tea and set a small bowl of sugar cubes on the table.
“Our host will pay,” Yousef told the waiter, jerking his head at Sear.
Sear dropped several coins on the tray and felt the cocked hammer of the SIG through the fabric of his jacket pocket.
Several men left the café and the waiter cleared their tables of cups and ashtrays. An old grey-bearded man sat in the corner, the hose and mouthpiece of the hookah never leaving his clenched teeth.
“How long will this take?” Sear asked.
Yousef looked over the top of his steaming cup at Sear and blew across the tea. “Do you have the money?”
Sear tapped the hard shell case at his feet with the toe of his boot.
“Then it won’t take long.” Yousef poked Parvis in the shoulder and laughed. “Let us see the money,” His tone became deadly serious as he turned to face Sear.
“When I see the girl.”
“As you wish,” Yousef said as he stood. “We’ll get something better after,” he said to Parvis, gesturing for him to follow.
The three men left the café by the side door and entered an alley adjacent to the ruins of a brick building. Under the security light at the back door of the café sat a badly worn and rusted white Ford Econoline van that rested at a strange angle. Sear decided the odd tilt was from the tires being different sizes.
Yousef stopped by the side of the van. Reaching behind him, he pulled a revolver from the waistband of his pants.
“I want no tricks from you, “Yousef said, waving the pistol in a casual, almost comic way.
“Me neither,” Parvis said, also producing a handgun.
“No tricks,” Sears said as he set the case at his feet.
Parviz yanked the handle and the door of the rusted Econoline slid open. Mahvash turned and tried to sit up. Zip ties binding her hands made the struggle difficult and Mahvash fell against the dented interior wall. A blast of hot air rolled from the van and reeked of the burning ammonia stench of urine. Inside the floor was covered with a layer of rags and three army-issue khaki colored sleeping bags.
The rag tied around Mahvash’s mouth was stained with blood, sweat and what appeared to be vomit. Her eyes met Sear’s and flooded flashed with tears, anger and fear. Even though they met only once, she hoped she would recognized her brother-in-law. instantly. There was no recognition, only hate.
Sear quickly scanned the back of the van for explosives, or another member of the group. Mahvash was stripped below the waist. The sight of the blackened soles of her pink socks and the torn and stained University of Michigan sweat pants punctuated the lack of concern her captors had for her well-being. Her nakedness above the waist was barely covered by the lace bra she wore. Mahvash’s skin was a canvas for a myriad of cuts, scrapes, bruises and filth that marked the ninety plus days of her captivity.