Enemy In the Room Read Free Page B

his bag on the floor. “Omid, I have a full list of all
the students who have been arrested over the past three years, and
what happened to them.” He leaned toward the center, offering the
package under the table.
    “What? How did you get it?” Omid asked,
taking the large envelope and bringing it to his lap.
    “A friend of a friend. Can you get it
posted?”
    Omid’s closest friends knew that either he
hosted an antigovernment website overseas, or he knew the people
who did. Either way, if you gave information to Omid, it usually
wound up on the internet in a few days.
    “I—I’m not sure,” Omid said, darting his
eyes around to see who might be listening or who might have
observed the exchange. He had to consider the risk of leaving the
coffee house with this potentially explosive information.
    “The list is real. And official.”
    “That’s what I’m worried about,” Omid said,
smiling and looking at Goli, whose countenance had not changed.
    “It’s important that it gets out. Families
want to know what has happened. And so do relatives in the
West.”
    “I know. I know. Here, keep it tonight, and
give it to Morad in the next day or two in private. Morad, please
read it over, and if you think it’s genuine, bring it to the office
along with one of your oil company’s contracts to translate. Then
we’ll deal with it. OK?”
    The other young men nodded. “OK.”
    An hour later, as they left for the trip
home to their flat in the Elahiyeh part of northern Tehran, Goli
said to Omid, “Thank you for being careful.”
    Putting his arm around her, Omid said, “If
Morad vouches for it, then it needs to be published. But I want to
live to see our children’s children!”
    She smiled back at him. “As do I,” she said
softly.
     
    At that same moment in a working class
London neighborhood, Jamal, a young man who had emigrated with his
family from Iran when he was a child, entered a small warehouse not
far from his local mosque. He was greeted by his imam and several
close friends, who shook his hand and hugged him.
    After donning a robe made especially for the
occasion, he sat on a stool in front of a blue blanket. Lights came
on, and the imam started the video camera.
    Over the next few minutes Jamal only had to
glance at his notes twice, as he explained why he hated the West
and was proud to be Allah’s next suicide bomber.

2
    TUESDAY, MARCH 29TH
     
    As David rode up the elevator that Tuesday
morning, checking his handheld, he felt the dull ache and scratchy
eyes from too little sleep. Elizabeth was right; I couldn’t turn
it off . He had to finish a few things after the big New Year’s
celebration with the older Persian couple’s family, and he hadn’t
fallen asleep until two. The festivities had begun on a somber note
for the misguided student who had bombed the church on Sunday, but
soon the families moved on to celebrate the millennia of good
things about Iran, rather than the fanaticism of the last
decades.
    Now it was 7:45. Despite the headache, he
felt ready for anything that Trevor Knox or Paul Burke might
ask.
    The double doors into the real estate group
were open and the lights were on, but the receptionist would not be
in for thirty minutes. Their offices wrapped around a corner of the
floor, with the reception area directly off the elevator lobby. The
décor was cream colored walls, dark green carpeting, and light
brown trim. Behind the reception area was a spacious conference
room with a view of the city.
    David walked the silent hallway to his large
corner office, noticing a few lights beyond the break room. He
dropped his files on a conference table to the left of his door,
took his briefcase over to the desk, and plugged in his laptop. The
first new message from Phyllis Jordan informed him that the meeting
with Knox had been moved from that morning to just after lunch. He
took a deep breath. So I’ll get a cup of coffee and ask Julie to
rearrange my day. Actually, it’s better