Red Horse: Sample Chapter
All Rights Reserved.
Secret location, Tehran, Iran.
Haleema Sheraz tapped the keyboard function to kill the screen, swung around in her chair and stood up, yawning. She looked down at the row of desks where her colleagues all focused on their screens, working on their various tasks. Some chose to sit on bean bags in the corner with their laptops or lounge in a hammock that had been set up across one of the spaces.
The election had been the main topic of conversation. The news had just come through that the ruling party had won outright. The progressive opposition leader, Mehdi Yazdi, had not been heard from since.
Of course, it was no secret that he never had a chance of winning. It just would not be allowed. It was no surprise to Haleema, and as the conversation and murmurs died down, everyone focused on their work.
The Cyber Army was not officially part of the Iranian Government, but everyone who worked there knew where the funding came from. It comprised a group of IT specialists and professional hackers. Their primary task was simply to wage cyber warfare against the West’s governments and corporations and hack “enemy sites”.
Her particular project was a malware exploit virus that was near completion. She had been tasked with focusing on hacking into corporations working within the military-industrial complex in the United States.
The Iranian authorities had been pressuring her bosses to get results faster, as if hacking and decrypting was just something you needed to “sweat over”, and then it would happen. Their work was so complicated the mullahs would hardly comprehend it. Haleema smiled to herself as she logged off, imagining the looks on their faces as she explained it was “over their heads”.
It was home time, and she needed a change of scene; the long hours staring at the monitors took their toll. As she grabbed her handbag and said goodbye to a few remaining colleagues, her eyes briefly passed across the stencilled image of the supreme leader, Ali Khamenei, that dominated the wall.
Her friend Ko looked up from his laptop and gave her a wave. To look at him anyone would think he was another one of those affluent kids from Elahieh, but he was one of the best code-breakers she knew.
She had endured a difficult few years since returning to Iran following her studies in England. Fitting back into Iranian society, with its rigid morality laws and demand for absolute service to the state, had been difficult, to say the least. Yet through her programming skills, she had come to the attention of her current employers. To do what she loved doing and get paid, she lowered her expectations after university and became a hacker, indirectly for the government.
The stuffy, windowless bunkered office, set on the basement floors of the Ministry, was a relief to escape from. Haleema buttoned up her dark green manteaux, adjusted her hijab and breathed in the night air. She glanced at her watch, not too late but late enough: 9.33 pm.
Across the quiet four-lane road, a gust of wind blew sheets of newspaper along the carriageway; a taxi slowed on the far side, picking up two men before speeding off. Haleema tutted, annoyed she had missed it and walked along the closed storefronts that lined the main road. Sunbleached posters, half ripped, of the ruling council members of Iran were plastered on the boarded-up derelict storefronts.
Years ago, the streets would have been bustling with life, but as the war with UIS intensified, no one wanted to take any chances. That, along with the fact that Tehran’s morality police had raided and forced the closure of dozens of cafes, the mainstay sanctuary of young Tehranis’, intellectuals and students tended to clear the streets.
Although it wasn’t strictly illegal to be out after 9 pm, it had become a self-fulfilling act, as though anyone found on the streets was judged somehow, if only in questioning stares.
Haleema had recently moved nearer to her work to cut down on the commute and buy her more time for other activities. She wondered whether to drop by her friend’s house. There was always something going on at Ali J’s, whether it was playing illegal Western music or messing around on his latest game console. All the usual trendy Iranian “in crowd” would probably already be there, sneakily drinking alcohol and breaking a dozen other laws as well.
This young generation of Iranians only wanted to live life on their terms and avoid the crazy laws and authoritarian regimes as much as possible.
Haleema’s phone vibrated. She slipped the device out of her bag and smiled as she read the message from her friend, Dalir. Maybe it would be another late night. A bus pulled up, and she made a run for it, jumping on just before it departed again, and sitting down hastily before checking the news feed on her phone. The situation near her hometown was worsening. The United Islamic State, or Daesh, as they hated being called, seemed to be gaining a firmer stronghold in the south as well as the eastern provinces bordering Afghanistan.
Her family home in Shiraz, where her parents and brothers lived, was right on the knife edge of danger if they made any more gains. Apparently, support for foreign radicals from Iraq and Syria bolstered the Daesh, making them a real threat to the current government.
Haleema didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, she had no time for the regime that paid her, a group of backward-thinking old men. Yet UIS seemed to be a much scarier prospect from the stories she had heard of forced slavery, beheadings and massacres. It was easy to see how a whole generation was being isolated when they had to choose between one or the other.
Two more stops went past before Haleema jumped off the bus. She headed through a landscaped garden that led to a series of concrete tenement blocks and walked around it to the rear of the building. There was a myriad of sounds; children laughing, an argument, the distorted tones from a television all drifting between the buildings.
She came to a courtyard, across which was a stand-alone building backed up by a high brick wall. There was a deep repetitive noise, indistinguishable from the other sounds. She pressed a buzzer quickly three times and waited. After a few moments, the door creaked open, and a face peeked out from the darkness inside. The thudding noise more recognisable as a bass line drifting out into the open.
“Hey, Ali. You gonna let me in before you alert the whole city of your den?”
Ali stepped aside to let her in with a nod, and she descended a metal staircase that led into a large basement filled with around twenty young Iranians. A group stood around a pair of record decks at the end of the room, nodding their heads to the beat, drinking beers and smoking.
She glanced around the graffiti-covered walls that her friend Dahir had sprayed up, inspired by the street artists from America and the UK, except the cartoonesque characters were young hip Iranians clad in baseball caps, trainers and oversized T-shirts.
“Dahir!” she shouted. A figure from the group waved a skinny arm, and Dahir made his way over to her.
“Haleema!” He smiled broadly, evidently pleased to see her, and gave her a peck on both cheeks. “So, how are you doing? Still slaving for the supreme leader?”
Haleema waved a dismissive hand and took Dahir’s beer. She took a swig and looked around pensively.
“It’s a living—for now.”
She smiled warmly at him and affectionately ran a hand across his shoulder. “And you? Still seeing that girl? What’s her name?”
Dahir shook his head and took back the beer. “No, I’m not sure. She didn’t call me.” He glanced across the room and smiled at another young guy who had drifted over towards them.
“Omar. You know Haleema?”
They both smiled and shook hands. “No, I don’t think so…”
She felt a vibration and fished around in her bag, picking out her phone. She saw from the caller ID it was her mother calling. How could she answer with this music? She placed the phone back in her bag. Omar and Dahir both looked at her questioningly.
Haleema shrugged.
“My mother. I’ll have to call her back later.”
Dahir leaned over to her. “Something I need to tell you. About why it didn’t work out with that girl.” Haleema slowly nodded her head, her eyes dropping to Dahir’s and Omar’s hands that were clasped tightly together.
“Oh…” She raised her eyebrows and nodded again.
“Don’t you approve?”
Haleema laughed and gave them both a hug. “Yes, of course, I approve. Whatever makes you happy, Dahir.” Her face became more serious. “Please, though, be careful—the authorities.”
Dahir gave her shoulder a gentle rub. “Don’t you worry, Hal…”
She swung her attention to Omar. “So Omar. Tell me more about yourself.”
***
Haleema stepped out of the taxi, swaying slightly. Maybe she’d had one too many beers. She made her way up the concrete steps leading to her apartment block; her small flat was on the third floor.
“Lights,” she said, and the main room was illuminated with a warm glow from the ceiling lights. She slipped her coat and shoes off, leaving them neatly by the door. Her modest apartment was clean and well kept, the simple furnishing carefully chosen to her tastes. The lounge area had a coffee table made from wooden crate bottoms that she had sprayed white. A long sofa ran parallel, facing a large television screen that had wires strewn across to a laptop balanced on the coffee table. On one side, a blind obscured a window, and there was a group of plants that complemented the white walls.
She went to the kitchen area in the corner and switched on the kettle, throwing her bag down onto the floor.
“Play Dahir’s mix, number 13,” she said out loud. A moment later, the audio system began to play a steady rhythmic tune, a homegrown hip-hop mix Dahir had given her. After brewing a mint tea, she slumped down onto the sofa, curling her feet up, cupping the tea in her hands, relieved to be home. She thought about Dahir and his revelation that evening and smiled to herself as she placed the cup on the table. The music filled the room, and Haleema’s eyes grew heavy, the long day finally catching up with her.
***
Haleema jolted awake with a sense of unease, her eyes wide. She hadn’t returned her mother’s call!
She wheeled her legs off the sofa and rooted around for her bag. Finding her phone, she immediately dialled her mother’s number and listened to the ringtone. Yellow streams of light fought to get through the half-shut blinds.
How could it be morning already?
Haleema promised herself more early nights and headed to the bathroom, the phone still at her ear.
“Haleema?” The answer was immediate and frantic.
“Sorry, Ma, I was with friends, and then I got home and fell asleep…”
To Haleema’s surprise, her mother did not berate her and continued talking. “Your father hasn’t arrived. He was supposed to be back yesterday, but he hasn’t turned up. Something bad has happened. I know it, Haleema!”
Read a chapter from Dark Paradigm #3: Black Horse
Order Red Horse (Dark Paradigm # 2) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.
The post Red Horse: Sample Chapter appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.
