“Very well. Does a martyr feel pain when he dies?”
“No, he does not, Pedar! A martyr will not feel the pain of death except like how you feel when you are pinched.”
Seeing his father’s pride, Qubad beamed. But he was not finished. “I know more! I know more!” he shouted.
“Go ahead, my son.”
“The shedding of the martyr’s blood will forgive all of his sins! And he will go directly to paradise! And he will be decorated with jewels! And he will be in the arms of seventy-two beautiful virgins! And he will…”
Qubad stopped. The cheering died down. A puzzled look came over the little boy’s face. He cocked his head to the side.
“What is it, Qubad?” his father asked.
There was a long pause.
Then Qubad asked, “What is a virgin, father?”
Hosseini smiled. “That, little man, is a lesson for another day. Who is ready to eat?”
“We are! We are!” they yelled.
They were now far from the city limits of Tehran, heading southwest along Highway 9 toward the holy city of Qom. Hosseini pulled over at a roadside stand and bought the boys some bread and fruit, along with some candy bars as special treats. Then they kept driving, talking and singing along the way.
When they pulled off onto a side road on the outskirts of Qom, Bahadur asked, “Where are we going, Father?”
“To an army base, boys,” Hosseini replied.
“Really?” Qubad asked, his eyes wide, chocolate all over his face. “Why?”
“You will see.”
Soon they came to a military checkpoint. Two heavily armed guards ordered the car to a halt. Hosseini showed them his papers. They looked in, saw the boys, and waved them all through.
As the boys began to see tanks and armored personnel carriers and soldiers carrying weapons and doing drills, they became more excited. Helicopters passed overhead. Nearby they could hear soldiers training at the firing range. A moment later, they parked by a field where hundreds of children were assembling and forming into lines.
“We’re here,” Hosseini said.
Hosseini got the boys out of the car, walked them over to a folding table where he wrote their names on a registry, kissed them each on both cheeks, and told them to join the others on the field and do as they were told.
Dutifully, they obeyed their father and ran out to the field, eager to learn what this exciting mystery was all about. It was then that the soldiers began passing out red plastic keys, each dangling on a string-one per child until everyone had his own. Then the commanding officer of the base introduced himself and told the children to put the keys around their necks.
“This, dear children of Persia,” he bellowed over the loudspeakers, “is your key to paradise.”
23
Hosseini suddenly woke from his dream.
Beside him in their bed, his wife was weeping. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost two in the morning.
Every year, for eighteen years, he had endured the same ritual. Every year he dreamed about that special day with his boys and savored the memories. Every year he awoke in the middle of the night to comfort the wife of his youth and hold her in his arms. And every year he resented her for it.
“They were good boys,” she sobbed. “They didn’t deserve to die.”
“Yes, they were good boys,” he replied softly. “That’s why they deserved the honor of death.”
“You had no right to send them.”
“I had every right. Indeed, I had a responsibility. I had no choice.”
“You did.”
“I did not, and neither did you.”
“How can you say that every year?”
“How can you?” he demanded, his patience wearing thin. “Do you want to burn in the fires of hell?”
She shook her head as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks.
“Then stop being so foolish,” he said, holding her more tightly. “They were not ours to keep. They were Allah’s. He gave them to us. We gave them back.”
At that she pulled away and jumped out of bed, screaming hysterically. “Gave them back? Gave them back? You sent them into the minefields, Hamid! They were children! Bahadur. Firuz. Qubad. They were my children, not just yours. You sent them to walk across minefields! You sent them to blow themselves into a thousand pieces. For what? To clear the path for our tanks and our soldiers to kill Iraqis. That is not the job of a child. Shame on you! Shame!”
Hosseini leaped out of bed. His heart was racing. His face was red. He stormed over to his wife and slapped her to the ground.
“You wicked woman!” he roared. “I am proud of my sons. They are martyrs. They are shaheeds. I honor their memory. But you disgrace them. You disgrace them by this weeping. To mourn them is to disbelieve. You are an infidel!”
Hosseini began beating her mercilessly, but she would not relent.
“Infidel?” she screamed as his blows rained down upon her. “I am an infidel? You sent little Qubad to Iraq to step on a land mine! Curse you, Hamid. He was ten. All I have left of him is a piece of that plastic key and a tuft of his hair. And what do I have of Bahadur? or Firuz? If this is Islam, I don’t want any part of it. You and the Ayatollah bought a half-million keys. You are sick, all of you. This is your religion, not mine. I hate you. I hate all of you who practice this evil!”
Hosseini’s eyes went wide. Stunned momentarily by his wife’s words, he suddenly stopped beating her. He just stared at her, trying to comprehend the turn of events. She had never supported him in this decision. Not from day one. Every year, she wept. Every year, he comforted her. But it had been eighteen years. It was enough. Now she had gone too far.
As she sobbed on the floor, her face bloodied and bruised, Hosseini walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the nickel-plated revolver his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday. He knew it was loaded. It was always loaded. He cocked the hammer and turned toward his wife. Hearing the hammer, his wife turned her head and looked into his eyes. She was quivering. He didn’t care. She was no longer a Muslim. She was no longer his wife. He raised the pistol, aimed it at her face, and pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed through their modest home, and soon several bodyguards rushed in, guns drawn, ready to protect their master with their lives. They were stunned to see the Supreme Leader’s wife on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Hosseini had no need to explain himself. Certainly not to his own guards. He simply instructed them to clean up the mess and bury the body. Then he set the pistol back in his dresser drawer, washed his hands and face, walked down the hall to one of their guest rooms, and lay down on the bed, where he fell fast asleep.
Never had he slept so peacefully, and as he slept, he dreamed of the day when the Twelfth Imam would finally come and reunite him with his sons.
24
Baghdad, Iraq
February 2002
“Excuse me, are you Najjar Malik?”
Surprised to hear his name whispered in the central reading room of the University of Baghdad library, Najjar looked up from one of his books and found himself staring into the eyes of a swarthy older man in a dark suit. Najjar could not place the face or the voice. Cautiously, he acknowledged that he was, in fact, Najjar Malik.
“You have a visitor,” the man whispered.
He was attracting the attention of several students reading nearby, and Najjar was suddenly uncomfortable.
“Who?”
“I cannot say,” the man said. “But come with me. I will take you to him.”
Najjar glanced at his watch. He had his next class in fifteen minutes.
“Do not worry,” the man said. “This will only take a moment. He is right outside.”