04 September 2001.  15:35 Local Time 

Ahal Welayaty Junction, Turkmenistan

The four hundred mile rail journey from Ashgabat, the Turkmenistan capital, to Kerki in the east, begins with a flirtatious hundred-mile stretch in which the railroad can hardly keep itself from touching Iran. Then, like a fickle lover, it turns its back and heads east across the desert, to where Mary lies waiting.

   At Mary the railroad splits, either going south to Gushgy on the Afghanistan border, or continues eastwards for another two hundred miles, to Kerki.

   Tom knew nothing of such detail. The first he knew was the rhythmic duet of wheel and rail and that someone was forcing drops of water between his bruised lips. He opened his eyes and found that a white-bearded old man, dressed in a blue checked turban and the traditional long shirt and trousers was tending him.

    ‘Shukran,’ Tom said, in thanks.

    ‘Kaif halak?’ the old man enquired.

    ‘I’m OK, thanks.’

     They were locked in a cage: a fenced compound in what seemed to be in a railway freight-wagon. The one barred window in the wagon had thick wired glass that had been painted over. He could see no obvious sign of guards. The only entrance was the side-door through which freight would normally have been loaded. The electric light in the roof flickered as the train clattered across the points at Ahal Welayaty junction.

     In response to a voice, the old man turned from Tom and with a clank of chains crawled across the swaying floor to where a youth knelt. The youth was bareheaded with his short black hair brushed forward into a fringe. He was dressed in a Western style, with denim trousers and a blue windcheater. He, like the older man, wore riding boots and manacles at wrist and ankle.

   The youth was washing the face of a fourth person who lay moaning. Tom tried to sit up, but waves of pain wracked his body. He guessed he must have some broken ribs. Touching his forehead he felt the burn made by the first interrogator’s cigarette. In the process discovering that he was manacled in a similar way to the other two.

    The old man and the youth spoke soothingly to their ‘patient’. The moaning stopped to be replaced by a faltering female voice.

    ‘Mae?’ Tom called.

    ‘Ja?’

    Tom forgot his pains and, trying to keep his balance, crawled across the swaying floor to Mae. He gasped when he saw her, for she too had taken a savage beating. Between them they got her into the sitting position whilst the boy tried to pull the remnants of her scarf about her hair to protect her modesty. Tom was amazed at the kindness and gentleness offered by the two strangers.

    ‘Mae and Tom,’ Tom said, pointing.

   It took a few moments, but then the boy replied, ‘Hamid,’ pointing to himself and ‘Maumoon,’ nodding towards the old man.

    ‘They don’t speak English?’ Mae whispered.

    ‘No, but the poor buggers look in the same boat as us.’

     ‘Any idea where we are going?’ she asked.

     ‘A place called Kerki. It’s some distance away from ...’ he began to explain, but her eyes were closing and she soon slipped into a sleep of exhaustion.

    Hamid pointed to a yellow plastic container in which their supply of drinking water slopped about in time to the swaying of the train. Tom took a deep draught, using the dirty plastic mug that hung by a thin chain. He settled back his thoughts dwelling on how on earth that meeting of two weeks ago could have had got him into this ridiculous and dangerous situation...

 ***

Two weeks earlier Tom had sat in the reception area of the Winston Tate Agency. Through a partly opened door he could see the red-faced Winston sitting, as usual, in the midst of a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was talking to someone who must be very important, he reasoned, for Winston had removed the cigarette from between his lips.

    At forty-nine years of age Tom found the idea of sitting around until other people were ready to see him irritating.  He stood up and walked about. Catching sight of his reflection in the glass door of a bookcase, he stopped, pretending to read the book titles as he studied his appearance. If he stood perfectly straight, he seemed to be nearer to five feet eight than he actually was and standing straight concealed the suggestion of a thickening waistline. At least he had all his own hair. He arched his eyebrows, flattening the laughter-lines at the corner of each eye. Could be worse.

   Tom glanced towards the open door hoping to see whom Winston was addressing so earnestly, but all he could see was the polished toecap of an expensive brown brogue. Whoever was wearing it had their legs crossed and the shoe seemed to have a life of its own, bouncing slowly up and down as if following a musical beat.

   Winston broke off the conversation, leant forward and spoke into the intercom.

   ‘Mr Tate will see you now, Mr Blaire,’ the secretary announced, surprised to see that he was already on his way in.

‘Come in, Tom. I would like you to meet Mr Asif.’

    ‘Mr Blaire, I am so pleased to meet you,’ the owner of the expensive brogues said, rising and offering his heavily ringed and manicured hand for Tom to shake.

   ‘Hello,’ Tom said, reluctantly taking the outstretched hand. The strength and nature of Asif’s handshake surprised Tom for it was not the weak limp handshake he had anticipated, instead he found his wrist locked. His fingers bent very slightly downwards and his wrist slightly upwards, undetectable to the casual observer but nevertheless, wrist-locked. Eye contact was instant as he searched for the challenge, but there was no penetrating the smile. Tom felt left at a disadvantage after such a handshake.

     He noted that Asif had buttoned his jacket on rising, and now unbuttoned it as he sat down.  Every movement planned, Tom concluded, observing Asif adjust the knife-edged creases of his trousers.

   ‘Where’s Sari and why do you want me to go there?’ Tom asked.

    There was a stunned silence. Winston glanced at Asif. They both turned towards Tom.

   ‘How did you know about Sari?’ Asif asked. ‘It has not yet been mentioned outside this room.’ He moved to the edge of his chair, the soft brown eyes seemed to harden. Here it seemed was something Asif had not been prepared for.

   ‘Tell me about Sari, and I’ll tell you how I know,’ Tom countered.

   He was keen to further unsettle Asif although, other than the handshake, he didn’t fully understand why he still felt the need to do so.

   ‘Sari is in Iran, it used to be the capital city before Tehran took its place. It lies to the northeast of Tehran near the Turkmenistan border ... but I see that you can lip read, Mr Blaire.’ Asif sank back into the chair, once more relaxed. ‘Best keep your door shut in future, Winston.’

‘Yes, my son is deaf. Lip-reading’s part of my life,’ Tom explained. ‘Have you been a wrestler all your life, Mr Asif?

   ‘It takes one to know one,’ Asif replied, with a laugh.

   ‘Yeah … the handshake ...  bit of a giveaway.’

   ‘I didn’t know you were a wrestler, Tom,’ Winston said.

   ‘I’m not really. I did a bit of Judo when I was younger, not much these days though, the old joints are not up to it. Look, I’m sure you don’t want me to come here to talk wrestling – ’

    ‘No indeed,’ Asif replied, ‘I believe you have considerable experience in Cave Museums, Mr. Blaire.’

   ‘Well, that’s mostly what I’ve done since I left the Royal Air Force.’

   ‘How did you ever get into this specialist line of work?’ Asif asked. ‘It seems a long way away from flying jet aircraft.’

   ‘Bluff really,’ Tom said, with a chuckle, ‘I’d a secondary duty as Officer-in-Charge of the RAF Caving Association, until I left the Air Force. I then got a temporary job as a researcher at the RAF Museum at Hendon. When the French decided to update the Grotte de la Devèze museum, I was fortunate enough to get a position there on the strength of my so called caving and museum background. A temporary job, it didn’t last very long at all, still it was just long enough to justify going onto my CV in a more meaningful way.’

  ‘Where did you go from there?’ Asif asked.

  ‘I got involved with drawing up the project for the Bardwell Crags Cave Art Museum. When they got the lottery grant approved, I moved on and I became project leader on the West Wales cave museum project, in Pembrokeshire.’

   ‘Yes, such experience is very rare and that is why I am interested in getting hold of you for a little consultancy in Iran,’ Asif explained, ‘have you heard of the Huto and Kamarband Caves, Tom ... may I call you Tom?’

   ‘Vaguely, I knew they were in the Middle East, but I didn’t know they were in Iran. Yeah, Tom’s fine, what do I call you?’

   ‘Best stick to Asif, you will never manage to pronounce the rest.’

   They both laughed.

   ‘What’ve you got in mind, Asif?’

   ‘The Huto and Kamarband Caves museum is near Sari. The site it will cover is an area of 13 hectares, stretching to the sea on one side and to the Alborz Mountains on the other side. The exhibits will feature reconstructions of the lifestyles of the cave dwellers during different eras, over the last 75,000 years –’

   ‘Sounds interesting, Asif, but won’t security be a nightmare? Brits aren’t always flavour-of-the-month in Iran, are they?’

    ‘Hey! Trust me it’s no problem. The feasibility study is being sponsored by the CHTO, the Cultural Heritage and Tourism Organization. Getting tourism to take-off in this area is a national priority and they will welcome you with open arms.’

    ‘Sounds good,’ Tom said, nodding his acceptance. He needed the cash. His account of his employment in caving sounded more lucrative than it had been. There had been long gaps between each job during which he’d lived off the RAF pension. Bills weren’t getting paid.

     ‘Let’s start looking at terms and conditions then so we can draw up the contract,’ suggested Winston.

     ‘Yes, let us get it sorted in detail. I want no surprises later, I hate surprises,’ Asif added.

     ‘I know what you mean,’ said Tom, ‘I like things cut and dried myself. Excuse me whilst I make a phone call,’ he added, walking to the window.

    I need to carry out a few checks on you too, mate, you give me a bad feeling.

   Unobserved, he used the camera on his cell-phone to photograph Asif who, Tom hoped, was too preoccupied discussing terms with Winston to notice.

***

31 August 2001:  

London – UK

13:38 Local Time

The telephone rang in Tom’s hand. He picked it up and answered. ‘Blaire!’

   ‘Tom?’

   ‘Yeah, speaking.’

   ‘Hi, Tom, it’s Ahmed here, Ahmed Mikalian, I’m calling from Tehran.’

   ‘Hey, Ahmed, how are you? It’s good to hear you ... after all this time too.’

   ‘Yes, it’s been five, no ... six years.’

   ‘How’s the family?’

   ‘Really well thanks, Tom, how’s Annie and Tommy?’

   ‘Ah!’ there was a long pause. ‘We divorced a year ago. They live in the States now.’

   ‘Tom, I had no idea … this is awful, look I’m –’

   ‘Let’s not discuss it, OK? Did you get any joy?’

   ‘Not a lot I’m afraid, I only got your fax thirty-six hours ago. This Asif character does seem to be attached to the CHTO though –’

   ‘The tourist people?’

   ‘Yeah, that’s them. But it all looks a bit new, his documents I mean. I managed to get sight of them through a contact at the CHTO. They look as if they were all prepared at exactly the same time. The same printer font, the same colour ink on the signatures, you would expect some of the documents to be a bit worn with use.’

   ‘I see. Still, there’s not a lot you can deduce from that. The originals may have been lost and these are replacements. Any luck on the photo?’

   ‘Not yet, but Mani has taken it away. He’s like a bloodhound with a whiff of a scent, “...something in the picture speaks to me,” he insists.’

    ‘Typical bloody Mani, nothing changes. I used to think he was CIA one day and KGB the next.’

   They both laughed.

   ‘When are you getting out here, Tom?’

   ‘Should be two days, I’ll fax you the flight details this afternoon.’

    ‘Okay, I will meet you at the inbound gate. Mani has you booked into the Commodore by the way, he insists on hosting you.’

   ‘Staying with Mani is always an adventure. You meet the strangest people in his crazy hotel,’ Tom said with a laugh, ‘he’s the only Marxist Capitalist I ever met.’

   ‘Rather you than me, old friend. Have a good trip.’

   ‘Yeah, cheers, Ahmed. Look forward to seeing you.’

 ***

 02 September 2001:

Tehran-Mehrabad Airport, Iran

16:30 Local Time

After clearing customs and passport control, Tom had a chance to look about him. Things felt different to the old days, more threatening than welcoming. He felt an outsider. They had used to ‘slip’ here as the RAF called it. They’d fly the aircraft in, hand it over to the outgoing crew and then stay for three days until the next ‘slip’ crew handed over to them. They then flew on to Singapore and Hong Kong. He had got to know the local handling agents, Ahmed Mikalian and Manchehr Shayesteh – Mani to his friends – very well. Tom would buy clothes from London and bring them out for them and electrical equipment back from the Far East. They had in return looked after him and his crews very well. Eventually he had got to know their families, even to the point of being an honorary uncle to Ahmed’s children.

   He stopped as he approached the exit gates, squinting through tired eyes until he picked Ahmed standing amongst the usual milling throng that welcomed incoming passengers. He looked a lot older than the last time Tom had seen him, his wavy black hair now quite grey about the temples. Tall and slim, but slightly bowed as if carrying the worries of the world on his shoulders. The drooping black moustache caught the sadness of his posture, and mirrored it in his dark eyes. On seeing Tom he came to life, a warm sincerity eclipsing the sadness as he rushed forward to grasp Tom’s hand and pump it up and down. Both talked and neither really listened. Arm in arm they walked towards the street, each pushing the baggage cart with their free hand.

    The taxi drive into Tehran was the usual ‘white-knuckle’ gamble with death, but for once this was lost on Tom who had so much to tell and as much to ask. To their surprise they reached the Commodore in what seemed a very short time although the journey had in fact lasted a little over an hour.

   The hotel hadn’t changed at all. An average city hotel opening straight onto the street with the usual ‘shop-front’ windows inviting passers-by to peep in and the same heavy drapes that stopped them seeing anything when they did. The same musty smell of most Middle Eastern hotels built in the 1930s an odour that lay somewhere between, dust, tobacco, stale cooking and hashish.

  ‘Meester Shayesteh gives his apologies for not being here to meet you, Meester Blaire. He would be honoured if you could join him for dinner at nine o’clock,’ the receptionist announced, bowing.

   ‘No problems, tell him I’ll be down at nine.’

   ‘Room 306, Meester Blaire, your old room,’ he said, passing the key to a thin elderly porter who was dressed in a full, albeit rather shabby, bellboy uniform – complete with pillbox hat. ‘The bellhop will show you the way.’

   Tom noted the Americanism, and hoped that this would be the only concession to modernisation.

   ‘See you later, Ahmed.’

   ‘Yes indeed, see you back down here in reception.’

    Room 306 had suffered from modernisation. Most of the old pieces of heavy furniture that Tom remembered had been replaced by universal cheap hotel furniture. At least the bathroom still had its original giant cast iron bath, that took an age to fill, but nevertheless, was well worth the wait, Tom thought as he soaked up to his ears in its luxurious proportions.

    After a leisurely bath and shave, he dressed smart-casual in black slacks with a long sleeved cream coloured shirt and dark blue necktie. He carried a jacket. It was the safest option for it covered all eventualities. One was never sure who would be at Mani’s dinner table. He could always remove the tie and roll up his sleeves if it was a very casual affair, or slip on the jacket if it were more formal.

 ***

‘Thomas! My dearest friend in the entire world, you honour my hotel with your glorious presence,’ roared Mani, almost hugging the life out of Tom, ‘Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, let me look at you my friend.’

   They stood back as far as their arms would allow, with Tom’s hands buried in the massive bearlike ‘paws’ of Mani Shayesteh. Mani was generously proportioned, and Tom had often thought he could have easily been cast to play the archetypical Middle Eastern villain in any of the old black and white Humphrey Bogart movies. He lacked the fez, but wore the red cummerbund around his more than ample midriff. The white cotton jacket with a red carnation in its lapel, its pockets sagging as though supporting a weight equivalent to at least one pistol. Mani towered above most people, and although he was nearer seventy years of age, than sixty, he still radiated the energy of a man half his age. He had no grey hair worth mentioning on his balding head and even fewer in his large waxed and curled moustache.

    ‘Come and meet our guests, Tom.’

    Mani led the way into his private, and richly decorated dining-room, whose furnishings suggested more of old Persia than of modern Iran.

    As usual, family names were never mentioned in Mani’s introductions. This he usually excused as a weakness of memory, but probably concealed the secrecy that seemed a common element in all things Mani did.

   ‘Tom, this is Mac. Mac this is Tom.’

    Mac was a rugged looking Australian, with a large red nose, and close-cropped ginger hair.

   ‘Mac operates a helicopter and is setting up Air Ferry Services to take tourists from the airport to the Caspian resorts, and back. Tom is out here to help set up a cave museum in Sari.’

     Mac shook his hand and they exchanged a few words.

    ‘Tom, meet the Colonel.’

     Tom shook hands with a tall and distinguished Iranian, dressed in a sombre charcoal grey suit, which did little to disguise a posture that could only belong to a military man.

    Ahmed appeared briefly, but excused himself, as urgent business needed his attention. Before he left he exchanged a meaningful glance with Mani, who gave a slight knowing movement of his head. Tom, discreetly, looked away.

 ***

As the meal came to its conclusion over cigars, Turkish coffee and cognac, the conversation turned from generalities to the photographs of Mr Asif, that Tom had managed to take in London.

    ‘I have had this photograph enhanced, Tom, but this is the first cell-phone photograph I have seen, and the quality is not very good.’

    ‘Yeah, cameras in phones are new, I was lucky to get my hands on one, they haven’t been on the market long.’

    ‘We don’t recognise him at all,’ the Colonel said, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

    ‘That must be a good thing then?’ Tom asked, not daring to query the identity of the ‘we’ that the Colonel referred to.

    ‘No, not so good … if we don’t know him then almost certainly his identity has been deliberately concealed ... but we are still working on it.’

    ‘Perhaps there’s nothing to kno –’

    ‘He may be a Freemason, see here, look at his ring,’ Mani pointed at the photograph with the point of a fruit knife.

    Tom leaned to look at the enlarged photograph.

    ‘Here, use this,’ Mani said, offering a large magnifying glass that he retrieved from the ‘pistol-pocket’ of his jacket.

    Tom could just make out a pattern on the signet ring.

    ‘It looks like the points of a Masonic compass to me,’ Mani suggested.

    ‘Don’t think so,’ Tom muttered, straining as he moved the picture beneath the light, ‘seems like some sort of a cross or a rune.’

     ‘No problem, Tom,’ the Colonel said, ‘when he next arrives in Iran, we will know everything.’

     Mani returned the photograph to the manila envelope, and the glass to his pocket.

     ‘So when are you going up to Sari, Tom?’ asked Mac, changing the subject.

     ‘Soon as I can really, I’ll try to book a flight tomorrow.’

     ‘No need, mate, I can give you a lift up there after lunch. I’ve got to bring some folk back from Gorgan. I’ll have only one passenger going there, so I can drop you off at Sari on the way.’

   ‘Wow! That would be great, door to door service, my lucky day, thanks.’

   ‘No sweat, Tom, any mate of Mani is a mate of mine.’

   ‘Yes,’ Mani added, ‘we are all friends together here and friends look after each other.’

   Tom began to suspect that these were not chance events, it was all a bit too neat, and he was sure there was more to come. Mani’s world survived on deals within deals, and now Tom felt that he was becoming a part of one of them. He gave way to the inevitable. ‘Well I really am most grateful to you all, if there is anything I can do for any of you, then all you have to do is ask.’

   There was a silence, broken by the Colonel, who leant forward and spoke very quietly.

   ‘Well there is something you may be able to help with, Tom. Last month there was an aircraft crash about twenty or thirty kilometres south of Sari. Some very important people were killed. There has been an investigation, and pilot error has been given as the reason.’

   ‘I heard something about it on the BBC News. So how can I help?’

   ‘I can lob into the crash site, mate, and you can take a look at the wreckage, see if there was anything dodgy,’ Mac said, revealing his part in the plot.

   ‘If there was any incriminating evidence, then I suspect it’ll have been removed from the scene by now,’ Tom suggested.

    ‘Probably, but they’re not experts, they may have missed something,’ Mani explained.

    ‘Who aren’t experts?’ Tom asked.

    ‘This is Iran, Tom, there are many … let us call them, political departments,’ the Colonel explained.

   ‘Factions, mate, factions, some secular, some religious, but all highly bloody political,’ Mac added.

   ‘If my people were discovered at the crash scene, then that would lead to major problems in very high places,’ the Colonel explained.

    ‘But if you were caught, my friend, it would be all right,” said Mani, “what is more natural than for a person who has spent all his life flying getting his helicopter to touch down by an air crash site as he overflew it? You are new to the country and you have no political allegiances. You are here to work for the government, at their invitation … there would be no problem,’ Mani explained. He then added final part of the plan. ‘A few photographs and a brief report is all we need, Tom, just hand them over to Ahmed Mikalian, he will be in Sari waiting for you when you get there.’

     Maybe it was the cognac and the tiredness that got the better of Tom’s judgement, for he found himself agreeing to the plan.

     They parted with a shaking of hands. Mani escorted Tom up in the creaky old elevator and saw him safely into his room.