Twenty-Nine Cozy Bears

20

What the schedule called the 'Orientation' turned out to be little more than five Iranian men assuring their Russian guests that Iran's own teams were proficient. The three Russians sat in a short row of chairs in the middle of a small classroom which had a white-board, a chalkboard, and a large map of the world on the wall. The man felt that his primary school principal might have been contracted for the decor.

Their three escorts, Sara, Narges, and Leyla sat abreast in a short row of chairs along the back wall of the room — where the cool kids would be if they were on detention, in an american movie —while wearing thick jackets and smoking cigarettes. And why not? It was a choice of lung cancer or diabetes for the exit strategy in that country.

Each wore their uniforms and carried in themselves a flicker-flame of pride.

Alek, to his right, was beyond bored. Luca, in the chair to his left, was having an intense mental debate with himself and whatever demons he brought with him.

This ennui, this stress reducing mental activity was not obvious. The men sat straight, their eyes forward, their cheek bones sharp edge lines under their eyes which would split silk if pulled taunt across them. Attentive. Actively projecting all the signs of interest and respect. The man glanced at Alek. If Alek did not wear his horn-shell glasses his unfocused eyes would belie him dead. But the presentation was an effortless perfection. And on top of that he no longer was in this room. Alek roamed the dark streets of Moscow in his mind. His hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans, his black heavy boots crushing in an occasional pile of iced curb snow. His chin near his chest. An anonymous man in the shadows of the city he loved.

The man in the middle up in front of the room was older than the others, and appeared to be in charge. He had the feel of belonging, and the texture of impatiens, and it was the man's experience, in gatherings such as these, that the one in the room overtly demonstrating a strong desire to be anywhere else, could only be the true power in the room. Transparency was a privilege. He wore a beard which reached the belts of his robe, and a black turban which, like his robes, was made of fine, expensive dark linen. He only spoke enough to introduce the others, who were each in their forties or fifties, and wore long trimmed beards and dark green military uniforms. The man did not have an exact understanding of their system, but he knew he was out-ranked. These were serious military men. Two were generals. If only they could speak outside of the supine ennui of their presentations.

As solid and battle forged as they were however, the man wondered at their humanity. They were still human, if rough and dense examples of the species. But the important fact remained in, being human, they were also subject to the same threats, wears, and real world limitations. All four were IRGC. Two were decorated Quds.

Maybe none of them were here, and it was just him and the old man still in attendance because of position. The others were in deep protective mental states to escape the mind numbing descriptions of duty and department resources. Each and every cable and ICE package inventoried with precision and none of it real.

On impulse he asked as the last general finished, "How many lost?"

He asked this in Persian, using a voice similar to the ones just used on them. Then he added, "It is just us."

The whiskers of the old man moved. The man realized the elder had just smiled. "I understand, but I don't understand your question."

The man remained unchanged. "Injuries." It wasn't a question, much closer to command. "No?" he quipped when he caught no recognition sign from the elder. "Nothing. You have no idea what I am requesting? My apologies, sir."

The man noticed that everyone was back in the room. Everyone was actually as alert, ready and interested as they appeared to be. The only perceptive change was their combined breathing and its slight gain in volume.

The elder relaxed slightly, shifting his right foot from heel to toe on the floor, "Accepted of course, but what are you looking for?"

The man waited a beat, and then let another stretch and then, "Sir? Me? Are you waiting for me?"

"Yes, I asked..."

Switching to Russian the man asked, "Should I have said, 'I am sorry' then?"

The elder's expression changed from gaining anger — to draining — to confused, "What?"

"Instead of 'My apologies'? Should I have said, 'I am sorry, sir? '"

The elder rallied and said, "What is the difference?"

"Try saying each one to the widow at the funeral, and it becomes apparent, sir" the man urged.

The example was vivid enough, "Ah, yes, I see. But no to your question. Either would have been fine."

"I must be misunderstanding the function then, sir. That aside, I've listened carefully, and found myself curious as to why you have kept us here for two hours. Seems a bit long for the information received, and it crossed my mind that perhaps you have experienced a set back that was promised to be rectified shortly. Or, an attack happened and now we are stuck on how best to proceed. Or, you wanted us here so you could arrest us."