The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page A

Reuben quavered. “Only let me lock up—”
    “No time for that,” snarled the third pasdar , shoving Reuben. “Someone will lock up for you.”
    The three pasdars snickered behind him as Reuben, blind with fear, stumbled down the bazaar.

    Ezra grunted as he levered the handle of the shovel back and forth in the hard earth beneath his basement floor. Two or three more spadefuls should do it, he thought. Then the hole would be deep enough. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he glanced over at the canvas bag on the brick floor of the basement. For the hundredth time, he felt chagrin at how small the bulge the rial notes made inside the bag. Ah, well, he thought, it was all I could do. Again he jammed the shovel into the packed dirt.
    He placed the waterproof canvas bag in the hole, and then covered it with dirt. He tamped the earth down until it was firm, then repositioned the bricks he had removed. He could take the dirt he had displaced from the hole and scatter it in the garden, then pile firewood atop the bricks. He hoped these precautions would be sufficient. Wiping his hands, he climbed the stairs to the main floor of the house.
    Ezra went to the desk in his study and slid out the lap drawer. Lying atop the other contents of the drawer was an envelope containing one million tomans, which he had segregated from the rest of the sale proceeds now buried in the basement. Idly he opened the package and riffled through the bank notes. Today he would go to the covered bazaar and buy American dollars. Ten trips he would have to make, to convert all the money in the basement into hard currency. Trying to do the entire job on a single trip would surely arouse suspicion, and probably make him the target of thieves—either official or unofficial.
    Moosa came into the study. “What are you doing, Father?”
    “Getting ready to go to the bazaar.”
    Moosa glanced at the stack of rial notes, then back at his father. “Why are you going to the bazaar? The exchange rate at the banks is much more favorable.”
    Ezra looked at his son. “If you were in power, and you were worried about people like Ezra Solaiman taking money out of the country, what would be your first act?” Patiently he waited for Moosa’s answer.
    His brow wrinkled in confusion, Moosa said, “Outlaw currency conversion?”
    Ezra nodded. “Perhaps. Or even more effective, require the banks to maintain a list of all customers who request certain transactions—conversions to American dollars, for example—and to turn this list over to the government upon request. What better way to monitor those who are traveling or doing business abroad? How simple to arrest those whom the government deems ‘enemies of Islam’ and confiscate their currency.”
    Moosa scowled at the floor. The phone rang. Ezra picked up the receiver.
    “I must speak quickly,” said a muffled voice he did not recognize. “Others may be listening. Pasdars have come and arrested Abraham Moosovi. The word is that he will be shot at sunrise tomorrow.”
    Ezra felt his face going numb. “Why? For what crime?” he stammered.
    “He is accused of giving money to the State of Israel and of being an Israeli spy.”
    “But that is preposterous—”
    “Yes, but listen,” the voice interrupted, “there’s more. Tudeh operatives have been snooping around this area, asking the whereabouts of the Jewish and Baha’i families. Your name has been given to them.”
    Ezra felt his heart come leaping into his throat.
    “You must prepare for the worst. That is all I can say.”
    “But, wait!” shouted Ezra. “How do you know? When will they—” The line went dead.

TEN
    Ezra hung up the phone. For ten, twelve heartbeats, he could not move.
    “Father! What is it?” cried Moosa, seeing the stricken look on his father’s face.
    Unhearing, Ezra sprang into action. Stumbling across the room to a bookshelf, he threw aside several handfuls of books, uncovering a wall safe. “Go find