on that way for several hours. The interrogator seemed intent on trying to identify something. He gave a hint of what he was after just once, as they were reviewing data provided by a simulation of the triggering mechanism of the secret, monstrous object Tohid was helping to design.
“Is it better than it looks from the measurements, or worse?”
“What do you mean, Brother Inspector?”
“The measurement says that our device will not work. That we are not able to make the trigger work. But do we trust these measurements? Or are they a lie, to make us doubt our success? Which is the way out of this puzzle, I am wondering…”
Esfahani’s voice trailed off, and when Karim asked him again what he meant, he wouldn’t answer.
Molavi requested lunch, but the man behind the desk said no. Did they think he would be more cooperative on an empty stomach, sitting in an uncomfortable chair behind a locked door? Esfahani continued the interrogation until late afternoon.
“Can I ask you a question, Brother Inspector?” said Molavi finally. He was nearing the point of exhaustion. “What is it that you are looking for?”
“We are looking for lies,” said the interrogator.
“Which lies?” asked Molavi.
“The ones we cannot see. The ones in the machines, which will deceive us without even a whisper. The ones from the scientists who are hiding things. We are at a crossroads, Dr. Molavi. The signs point us in different directions. Esfahan is two hundred and eighty kilometers south of Tehran. Kermanshah is four hundred kilometers west of Tehran. But we do not know if the signs are accurate. Do they point us toward the right places? Do they give us an accurate measurement of distance? Or do they lie?”
“And why do you ask me about this, Brother Inspector?”
“Because I do not trust you.”
“And why is that?”
“That I cannot tell you, my dear Doctor. It is enough for you to know that you are under suspicion.”
Molavi felt a shiver. He shook his head to say that the interrogator was mistaken, then looked into his eyes.
“I have done nothing wrong.” He said it with utter sincerity. But the interrogator just shook his head.
“Khar kose!” he muttered. Your sister’s cunt. It was a crude remark, out of place even for an interrogator, and it startled Molavi.
“We will have more questions for you another day. Harder questions, I think. Perhaps with harder men asking them. I am sorry. But we must know where the lies are. Alhamdollah. It is God’s will.”
The interrogator asked Molavi if he had his passport. Yes, of course, said the young man. He carried it with him always, as most Iranians did. Just in case. The interrogator asked him to surrender it, for safekeeping. “It will be easier that way,” he said. Molavi asked when his passport might be returned to him, but the interrogator did not answer.
When Mehdi Esfahani was finished with his interrogation, he left his office in the complex near the Resalat Highway and traveled west toward Karaj. He was driving his own car, and trying to follow the directions he had been given to a villa in one of the new suburbs near Bahonar, where the Quds Force had a training camp. He got lost once, and was late arriving. The shutters of the villa were closed, and there was no answer when he first knocked at the door, so that he thought he had come to the wrong place. But eventually the door opened a crack, and in the shadows Esfahani could see the shards of a ruined face.
The interior of the villa was dark and dusty. The only light filtered in through slats in the shutters that were not quite tight. The dank light, illuminated by these few, tiny beams, made the room feel as if it were underwater, with motes of dust floating in the murky space like plankton. The room had the smell of a stale box.
Al-Majnoun sat down on a worn couch and bid his visitor do the same. He was smoking from something that glowed in the dark with each puff; it was the bowl of a hookah pipe. He offered Esfahani a pipe stem attached to a serpentine cord, but the visitor refused. The sound of the bubbles as he sucked down each breath was like the noise of a deep-sea diver. Al-Majnoun didn’t speak for a minute or so, while he drained whatever was in the pipe, and then he put aside his mouthpiece. His voice had a higher pitch