Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2), André Gallo [ebook reader color screen .txt] 📗

This realization bolstered her self-confidence although she was still nervous over the turn the conversation would take and how she would turn him down without making an adversary out of him.

Jemshid hadn’t said how Kharazzi was connected to the IRGC. However, he could vouch from personal experience that Kharazzi had influential connections. Further, if Kharazzi suspected Farah’s role with the so-called Satan Spy affair, how he handled that knowledge would have a definite impact on not only his own career but also on his life as well as hers and Kella’s and Christopher Breton’s. For that reason, she had no room for equivocation.

Kharazzi, in a dark suit, white collarless shirt and no tie, smiled at her and, as Jemshid eclipsed himself, directed her toward the garden through the open door. Kharazzi seemed a bit surprised at her wan appearance. He, also, no doubt had allowed her room in his fantasies during the last twenty-four hours. He looked like a man who had thought his plan through and saw it as a win-win proposition.

Farah and Kharazzi went through the Kabuki ritual of ta’arouf, exchanging exceedingly polite compliments. Although the fountain added its mellifluous sounds to the ornamental parterres of the garden, Farah was far removed from the harmony surrounding her.

Her mind raced, ready to parry whatever thrust Kharazzi had prepared. Under her father’s tutelage, disappointed that his first child had not been a boy, he had brought a fencing instructor to their Navārān home when she was in her early teens. Under his watchful eyes, she became adept with the foil before the revolution changed her world.

Farah meant to stay on a soothing and neutral topic. “This is such a pretty garden. Of course roses,” she pointed to the red and white flowers, “Persian buttercups, purple iris, yellow narcissus, and two lemon trees adding symmetry. Maryam has done such a lovely job, don’t you think?”

She could tell that his mind was not on flowers. He had his own battle plan and said, “Tell me something about yourself. Jemshid didn’t satisfy my curiosity, not even a little.” He smiled in a way she assumed he meant to be encouraging, even friendly. She only saw the teeth of a predator.

“There is little to say, Mr. Kharazzi,” she replied. “I live alone. My family has either passed away or emigrated.” Realizing that the need to give as little information as possible conflicted with her goal of also drawing a negative self-portrait that would make her either undesirable or unacceptable, she added, “My husband was arrested.”

Kharazzi nodded as if Farah’s answer confirmed his information. He said, “I grieve for you. How long have you lived without him?”

Farah was disappointed that the fact of her husband’s arrest had not deterred him. With her head down she said, “Several years now, unfortunately.”

“How many years, my dear?”

Farah looked at him with tears glinting in her eyes. She knew what he was driving at and didn’t want to aid his cause.

“Of course,” he said quietly, you know that, according to Islamic law, a separation of eighteen months is the same as a divorce.” He smiled broadly to hide his lack of certain knowledge in her case.

She parried his lunge and thrust quickly, “Only if the separation was initiated by the husband.”

Kharazzi paused as if wondering whether she had a better grasp of the details of family law or if, like him, she was covering her uncertainty with outward confidence. They had been walking, and he motioned for her to sit on a bench as he regrouped.

“Or if the husband is dead,” he said directing his glance toward the fountain.

“Is my husband dead? Do you know that?”

“We can legally assume his death in view of the time frame.”

“Mr. Kharazzi. Have you come here to talk about my husband? Please tell me, what is the real purpose of this visit?” He looked down at her, which made her feel at a disadvantage. Before he spoke again, she stood up.

“Farah,” he said softly, “I no longer have a wife. Unfortunately, we never had children. I have come of an age when career advancement and material wealth mean little. I have sufficient standing among my peers, although Allah, the Most Blessed and Merciful, may favor me in the future with increased responsibilities and authority. I have more than enough wealth to care for a rather large family. Since you yourself are no longer young,” Farah’s mouth became a thin line at this comment, “I propose a temporary marriage, a sigeh.”

Farah knew that Islamic law permitted sigeh marriages for as briefly as an hour or as long as ninety-nine years. This was also the law that made prostitution legal. In a book written by the Ayatollah Khomeini, if the woman was a known prostitute, copulation must be done with displeasure. Afterward, the man must advise her to choose another profession. Under sigeh, any children from a temporary marriage would be the wife’s responsibility. The expression, “like the child of a temporary wife,” had come to mean that something or someone was no one’s responsibility.

With the utmost restraint, Farah said, “Mr. Kharazzi, you may mean to honor me by asking, or you may mean otherwise. Under Jemshid’s roof, I will assume the first possibility. You must understand that I cannot enter into such a contract as you propose because I am married, even if I have not seen my husband for over two years. I am not aware,” she said firmly, “that there is a time limit on love.”

“Farah,” he looked into her eyes, his angular face and domineering eyes pointed at her like a foil, “I have it on excellent authority; your husband is dead. You are free to remarry.” This time, there was no smile.

She sat down heavily, her legs refusing to do their job with any confidence, her eyes