Recorded Books Inc. - Assassins of the Turquoise Palace

Assassins

of the

Turquoise

Palace

Also by Roya Hakakian

Journey from the Land of No

Assassins

of the

Turquoise

Palace

Roya Hakakian

Grove Press

New York

Copyright 2011 by Roya Hakakian

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or .

Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

FIRST EDITION

ISBN-13: 9780802195098

Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

11 12 13 14 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my two suns
E & K

To the Reader

This is a work of nonfiction. The characters and events depicted in this book are real. The material has been drawn from video archives, television and radio interviews, personal Web sites, and the notes and diaries of the individuals involved. There was also a wealth of trial reports, notes, memorandums, police documents, and newspaper and magazine articles to which I gained access. Moreover, I conducted my own interviews with many individuals whose lives had been touched by the case. Dialogue has been reconstructed based on the recollections of interviewees or been taken from the actual reports or transcripts. For a more comprehensive catalog of all the material used, a quick character reference or a glossary of unfamiliar terms, please see Sources at the end of the book.

Assassins

of the

Turquoise

Palace

Anytime I open my mouth to say something about the sad turn of events in my country, people worry that their funny man has become too political. I dont know what it means to be political. All I am is a resister against a band of thugs. I want for my homeland all the good things that forced us into exile in the West. I want freedom. If that loses me fans by making me political, if it makes me a target of the thugs, if it endangers my life and the life of my family, so be it!

Hadi Khorsandi, exiled Iranian satirist against
whom Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa in 1980

Berlin, Germany, September 17, 1992. After nearly an hour prowling Prager Street, surveying the restaurant in its culde-sac, two hulking, bearded figures rolled their collars up to their eyes and burst inside. A third man stood guard at the entrance. It was 10:47 p.m.

They darted through the main dining hall, past a lonely customer nursing a last drink. Through an archway, they entered the back room, where a party of eight sat at a corner table. The taller of the two intruders stationed himself behind one of the diners, facing the eldest among thema bald, bespectacled man in a gray suit who was addressing everyone. No one was yet aware of their arrival. The speaker, suddenly meeting the intruders dark gaze, froze in midspeech. Another guest asked what was wrong with him. The answer came from the intruder.

You sons of whores!

He thrust his gloved hand into the sports bag that hung on his shoulder. Then, a click.

A shout came from the table. Friends, its an assassi

The trail of his call faded in the roaring sound that followed. In the dimly lit air, sparks of fire flashed at the intruders hip. Bullets pierced the side of the bag, riddled the guests.

After two roundstwenty-six bulletsthe barrage ceased. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder. Of the eight guests, everyone had stooped or fallen, except one. The eldest guest was still in his chair, head slumped, blood tinting his white shirt, blending with the busy pattern of his tie. Another victim was doubled over, breathing noisily, gasping for air. His face was smashed into a mug of beer. The golden liquid was slowly darkening.

The second shooter walked up to the table, tucked his bare hand under his belt, and drew out a gun. No one stirred. He aimed at the eldest man and fired three bullets into his head. Then he turned to one of the bodies on the floor, a young, slender man dressed in what, until moments before, had been a crisp white shirt. Pointing his gun at the back of the mans head, he fired a single shot. Then he turned to the next body and aimed once more. But before he pulled the trigger, his accomplice motioned him to leave.

They bolted out of the restaurant. The guard joined them at the door. They ran toward a sky-blue BMW that was idling at the intersection across the cul-de-sac. The lead shooter reached it first. He grabbed the handles and swung both front and back passenger doors open. As he jammed himself beside the driver, he threw the bag behind him. The other two shoved themselves in the backseat. The driver stomped on the accelerator, nearly running over a pedestrian as he took off. Across the intersection, the engine of a black Mercedes roared, and it, too, took off and swerved onto a side street.

In their wake, everything was once again as it had been on so many nights before. The breeze blew gently. A light drizzle fell softly. But lights had come on in the few windows overlooking the restaurant. A handful of neighbors had awakened. On the fourth floor balcony of the building next to the restaurant, a young woman clutched the railing, leaning downward. Her auburn hair flowed over her white uniform, her skin still warm from the bike ride home. She peered intently at the sidewalk below, looking for the source of the blast that had shaken the floor of her living room. She was a curious bystander then, soon a witness to detail her account of the tremor beneath her feet, the tremor that would ripple through the continent in the months to come.

Terrorists nowadays! Its not enough that they kill you; they must also insult you as they do it.

Hadi Khorsandi, exiled Iranian satirist

On a Sunday morning in June 1989, six-year-old Sara Dehkordi received the news she had been praying for.

The phone rang at six oclock and Saras mother, who answered it, was surprised to hear the voice of the neighbors girl at the other end. She asked the girl the reason for calling so early. But the seven-year-old had assumed her most adult tone and insisted that the matter could only be discussed with Sara, and that No, Mrs. Dehkordi! It absolutely cant wait.

Shohreh handed the receiver to her daughter and within moments squeals of glee filled the drowsy air of their apartment.

Sara climbed into her bunk bed, designed and built by her father, and reaching for a stash of crayons beneath the mattress she withdrew one and scrawled the word hooray on the ceiling.

Her parents appeared at the door, mystified. Whats going on, moosh mooshak ? her mother askedlittle mouse in Persian.

Sara stuck her head between the wooden railings of the bed and cried out, Hes dead!

Of all the images Shohreh and Noori Dehkordi kept in their minds, the childs head framed by the railingsdark curls filling the spaces her petite face left emptywas among the most endearing. Sara was their only child, the sole heir to all the youthful idealism they still held to as they approached their middle years. Cultivate boldness in her now, they thought, and she would learn to tackle ideas in adulthood. During their traditional Sunday family strolls through Berlins Tiergarten Park, if Sara climbed a tree, their first reminder to her was not Be careful! It was, Is this the highest you can go?