Free The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page A

missing altogether. In the back of the store, a jagged hole gaped in the heavy steel door of Nathan’s strongbox, cut by an acetylene torch. Moosa did not need to look inside to know that all the jewelry in the box had been pilfered.
    He looked back at Nathan. “Who could have …”
    Nathan scoffed at him. “Do you seriously wonder? Who else could have brought an acetylene torch unchallenged into a locked shop? The pasdars are behind this—you can bet your life on it. Give a stinking barefoot a rifle and a title from Khomeini, and what do you expect? The ignorant fools have become a law unto themselves, Moosa. I’ve noticed those three thugs hanging around the area for the past several days now—‘on patrol against enemies of Islam,’ they said. I suppose they decided they liked some of my merchandise. And since I am a Jew, they saw little harm in taking what they wanted.”
    Moosa stared back at Nathan, his eyes wide with the enormity of what he was hearing.
    “I went to the police—or what is left of them—this morning to report the theft. I told them my suspicions. Do you know what they said?”
    Moosa shook his head.
    “They said, ‘Find the looters and bring them to us, and we will arrest them.’” Nathan snorted in disgust as he stared at the bloody rag in his hand.
    “I’ll tell you this, though,” continued Nathan, glaring darkly in the direction the pasdars had gone, “the next time those Muslim goons come in here, they’ll find me prepared.”
    Moosa’s eyes asked for an explanation.
    “Guns are not difficult to obtain, even for a Jew,” said Nathan. “You should think about it yourself, Solaiman,” advised Nathan. “You are as Jewish as I.”
    Moosa looked from his friend’s battered face to the ruined shop, then outside to the sidewalk.

NINE
    The huge low-ceilinged customs building was a bedlam of voices, a shifting mass of bodies. Thousands of men, women, and children stood in long lines before the low counters, attended by the customs officers. Ezra and Esther, their few pieces of luggage slung on straps across their shoulders, moved slowly along the queue. Sepi stood behind them, beside the carrying case. “If only Moosa were here,” she began.
    “Quiet, Sepi!” admonished Ezra sternly.
    Guards behind the counters methodically searched every piece of luggage placed on the counters. Female agents searched the handbags and bodies of the women passengers. As far as Ezra could see, not a single article was omitted from the scrupulous inspection. Again he felt the sweat trickling down his temple.
    Esther craned her neck above the crowd, anxiously searching the throng by the entrance. “Where is Hafizi?” she asked, “He came in with us, didn’t he? I can’t find him!” Panic began to unravel the edges of her voice.
    After an eternity, they reached the inspection counter. “Place everything you have on the counter,” ordered the official in a bored voice. He glanced over the handbags and the suitcases, then more carefully studied the plywood carrying case. “What is in this case?” he asked.
    “An antique rug I am taking to my cousin,” replied Ezra.
    “I do not see an export permit for this rug,” said the officer. “Open the case, I want to look inside.”

    Ezra hung up the phone, a grimace contorting his face.
    “What’s the matter?” Esther asked, as she tipped the bowl she held and doled a serving of steamed rice onto each of the four plates.
    “That was Nijat. He has made an offer for the store.”
    “Why the foul expression, then?”
    Ezra looked tiredly at his wife. “He has offered fourteen million tomans , paid over a year, or ten million in cash, paid immediately.”
    She paused, the serving spoon poised in midair. “But we must have the money now if we are to—”
    “Yes,” Ezra interrupted, “of course. And the business is worth almost twice the cash figure he has offered. But he says he cannot possibly raise so much cash on short notice.” Ezra