Enemy In the Room Read Free Page A

and
turned.
    “Thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
     
    Omid, the son of David’s cousin in Iran, and
his wife, Golnaz, or Goli as he and the family called her, owned a
small translation business in Tehran. Omid had learned English at
home and studied engineering at university, while Goli had a gift
for languages in general; they enjoyed a steady business. With a
loan from his family, Omid had opened an office two years earlier
on Mirdamad Avenue in Tehran, above a woman’s boutique and a
jewelry store. At the moment they employed three other translators,
who, like them, were only a few years out of school. Married just a
year, they were contemplating whether to start a family in the
turbulence that surrounded them in Iran.
    After closing their office early because of
New Year’s celebrations planned later with their family, Omid and
Goli walked three blocks to the Shalizar Coffee House; she wore the
traditional veil outdoors, both because of her nominal faith and to
avoid any hassles from the Basij, who patrolled the streets in
unmarked cars. There had been such hope only a few years earlier,
when the regime that had rigged the elections was replaced by the
ruling mullahs. But quickly that hope turned bitter, as the new
regime adopted all the policies and tactics of the previous ones.
It was as if the actors were wearing different masks, but it was
still the same tragedy.
    Inside, the coffee house was packed and
noisy. As their eyes adjusted they caught sight of Morad and two
other friends, saving seats for them in the far back corner. They
smiled and waved.
    The men shook hands while Golnaz watched,
and then they settled in and ordered. Omid had known Morad all his
life. He had a good job with an oil company, but like so many
others, wanted his country to change and to open up. Still single,
Morad had become the unofficial leader of their group, which had
stayed in touch since graduation. The other two men had been their
university classmates, seemingly also dedicated to changing the
course of their country. Ramin and Kamy had been close friends of
the others for six years, and although one never knew who might be
working for the Savama, or secret police, the five friends spoke
and planned freely together.
    Before the coffee arrived, they caught up on
their families and the celebration of New Years. A few minutes
later, Morad, stirring more sugar into his cup, lowered his voice
and leaned forward. “The demonstration will be at Vali Asr Square
at four next Friday afternoon, in ten days. This will be the first
in almost a year, and we hope that a good crowd will assemble
before the Basij arrive.”
    “When will the first tweets start?” Goli
asked.
    “At three,” Ramin replied.
    Shaking his head, Omid said, “The Basij will
be ruthless.”
    They fell silent. Finally Morad said, “It
will be what it will be. We have to put pressure on the regime
again if there is ever going to be change. Now that the mullahs
have the bomb, they are unafraid. With the world watching, we must
not be silent.”
    Omid nodded and squeezed Goli’s hand under
the table. He then brought his other hand to his face and rubbed
his mustache to cover his mouth, in case anyone was trying to read
lips. “As promised, we have New Years presents for each of
you.”
    Goli opened her bag and passed three small
boxes to Morad under the table.
    Omid continued. “Clean phones from the
outside, along with a list of our numbers. The Savama cannot have
tagged them or know who owns them. Please continue to use your
other phones for regular calls—and to show to Savama if
necessary—and use these only to call within our group. Also to text
and take videos on Friday.”
    Ramin smiled. “How did you get these?”
    “Let’s just say that Allah has provided. We
have five more.”
    They paused, then put the new phones in
their pockets. The second university friend, Kamy, looked around
and spoke softly across the table to Omid, as he reached for
something in