by Nathan Swain
“Best of all, there’ll be no political pressure, because they’re traveling incognito. Canadian visas. How trite.”
“Won’t their governments find out eventually?”
“Yes, of course. But all we need is time. When they’re released in six months, we’ll have done what we needed to do to protect the holy site.”
“Can we trust them?”
“Who, the Iranians? No, I don’t trust them. There will be elements in the government that will want to use their capture as propaganda. That would draw unwanted focus on their detention.”
“Then, let me go to Iran. I’ll find them and take care of them both.”
“Samir, it’s all in hand,” Reso said, taking a sip of black tea. “They’re on their way to prison as we speak.”
Chapter 57
Two white vans rumbled on separate paths through the streets of Tehran, one carrying Eastgate, the other Olivia. Both captives wore thick gray blindfolds. The vans headed northwest and converged on a place that was synonymous the world over for unlawful captivity and terror: Evin prison.
Evin held the most high-level political enemies of the Iranian regime—opposition party leaders, artists, and pro-democracy dissidents who challenged the authority of the ayatollah. Others were held not because of their own conduct, but because their captivity served a political purpose for the regime. One cell held three executives who once ran Iran’s most important utilities. The ayatollah imprisoned them for life as a message to the commercial elite: remember who runs this country. It was said that some inmates had been residents of Evin since the revolution in 1979. They were twice the age of most of the guards.
After being led into the prison, Eastgate and Olivia were ordered to hand over their clothes and were given blue jump suits and white flip flops to wear. They were put into separate cells, five feet long by three feet wide. A dirty mattress on a collapsed metal frame sat in the middle of each cell. A scrubby wool blanket sat folded atop each mattress. Small windows allowed faint beams of light into the cells, but the windows provided no hope of exit. Layers of steel grates saw to that. It was as bad as Eastgate had feared. They were in solitary confinement.
Eastgate was left alone in the cell for several hours. All he could hear was the incessant buzz of a fluorescent light bulb hanging from a decrepit electrical wire in the middle of the cell. He pictured Olivia sitting on her cot, isolated and hopeless. She didn’t have the benefit of his training. She might break soon, if she hadn’t already, Eastgate feared.
Sometime during the night two guards came into Eastgate’s cell with flashlights and took his picture with a clunky digital camera. In the camera flash, Eastgate noticed for the first time a sheet of paper taped to a wall in his cell. It looked like rules or directions of some kind, but it was so tattered and covered in grime that they were indecipherable.
Half a day passed before Eastgate was visited by another of his jailers. This time, the guards moved him to a larger room. They sat him down in a chair. A man stood across from him behind a white sheet, apparently to conceal his identify. A second man wearing a surgical mask operated a video camera.
The man behind the white sheet shouted at Eastgate. “Admit that you are working for the CIA and the US government.” Eastgate was silent.
“Admit that you entered Iran under a false identity and that you are a member of the US Special Forces. Why did you do this?”
Why did I do this? What a question? What if I answered truthfully? They’d have to believe me. No one could invent such a story.
Eastgate considered applying his counter-interrogation training by truthfully answering questions for which he knew the interrogators already had answers. This made it seem that he was cooperating and would lend more credibility to his subsequent denials of more important questions. But Eastgate knew everything he said would be recorded and broadcast on Iranian television or even around the world. The US military would be embarrassed. Everyone he knew would think he had been broken, lost his mind, or become a willing stooge for the ayatollah. Worse, those pursuing him would know where to find him.
No thanks. I’ll take my chances with silence.
Suddenly, a man walked along his right side and cracked a whip against the ground.
“If you don’t tell us, you will be punished,” the man said.
Eastgate remained silent.
The whip did not. It cracked the air in the cell, lashing Eastgate’s left foot. Eastgate howled as the whip cut into his flesh. Blood streamed from where a toenail was once attached to his big toe. The man administered five more lashings to Eastgate’s foot before leaving the room, only to return with a pair of flip flops. “Here,” the man with the whip said, handing Eastgate the flip flops, as if he was a member of the Red Cross distributing medical supplies. But he gave no treatment for Eastgate’s bloodied feet. Instead, they blindfolded him and lead him up a flight of stairs into a large room nearby his solitary confinement cell, throwing him into a cold stone floor.
A familiar voice greeted him.
“Will?” Olivia asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Will, are you OK?”
Chapter 58
“I’ve been better,” Eastgate said, the pain having cowed his voice to a whisper.
“What did they do to you?”
Eastgate groaned, grasping his wounded foot. “A much needed pedicure.”
“Monsters. Absolute monsters,” Olivia shouted, enraged at the sight of Eastgate’s bloodied foot. “What did they want?”
“A confession.”
“Of what? That we’re searching for the Garden of Eden?”
“No, that we’re spies working for MI6 or the CIA.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them that you’re a British spy.” Eastgate tried to smile.
“Very funny.”
“I didn’t tell them anything.”
“I take it your lunch date didn’t go so well.”
“No, it turns out I walked into the lion’s den. She’s a government minister.”
“Super. I hope she’s not seeking revenge for a bad break up.”
“No, just doing her job, I think.”
Eastgate winced as he crouched to the ground, massaging his lacerated foot. For a veteran SF operator like Eastgate, foot injuries were tantamount to a death sentence. The guidelines were drilled into him since his first days at Camp Mackall: “Next to the heat, it’s the feet.” He had received dozens of hours of training on how to care for his feet, and he spent countless hours in the field attending to the most minor blisters. Continued beatings like the one administered by the guards could end his career. That’s on top of the bum shoulder he still hadn’t properly treated since he left Iraq.
Despite the pain, Eastgate’s mind kept returning to his encounter with Tadita.
“There’s something off about her story,” Eastgate said, sliding the flip flops on to his feet. “She claimed to have seen the light and embraced Islam and the revolution. The woman I knew wasn’t capable of extremism. She was an atheist. A professor at Berkeley of all places.”
Half the room was dimly lit by a small window on the opposite wall. Eastgate and Olivia sat in darkness, staring at the semi-circle of light vibrating on the floor. Olivia was shaken by Eastgate’s comment. She assumed that her education and rationalism had immunized her from brainwashing. But they hadn’t protected Tadita. Olivia wondered what kind of coercion caused her to abandon common sense.
“What will they do with us?” Olivia asked.
“They’ll leverage us for political propaganda. It will be a boon to the ayatollah—catching a US soldier entering Iran under an assumed identity. They’ll milk it for all its worth.”
“What about me?”
“Not so sure. News that the daughter of the British foreign secretary entered the country under a false identity would be a huge story.”
“Yes, there’s no love lost between Iran and Britain.”
�
��Nor the US,” Eastgate said. “That’s what happens when you arrange the overthrow of a country’s democratically elected leader.”
“But holding me captive would create a political firestorm, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure would. It cuts both ways for them. My guess is they’re negotiating with your father right now for your release.”
“On what terms?”
“Release of prisoners in the US. Freeing of Hezbollah fighters in Israeli prisons. Or maybe a promise to remove sanctions against Iran in the UN Security Council.”
“I’m not worth it. I hope that’s not what’s happening.”
At that moment, a gaunt figure with a scraggly beard emerged like a ghost from the other side of the room.
“Are you sure?”
“Who’s there?” Olivia asked.
“Do you mean that? Are you ready to spend the rest of your life here?”
“Who are you?”
“Richard Frye. I’m an American CIA agent. At least I was, fifteen years ago.”
“What happened to you?”
“I came under cover. I was targeting potential spies in the leftist underground to inform on Soviet activities in Iran. It turned out one of my assets was an undercover intelligence officer for the ayatollah. I was detained in 1988 and I’ve been here ever since.”
A Cold War op. My God, this guy is straight out of a time machine.
“Well, the world has changed a lot since then,” Eastgate said.
“I understand the Soviet Union collapsed,” Frye said. “The US is the lone super power.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Others have come through here. They give me news. Some are taken to other prisons, some are executed. Most are ransomed out.”
Eastgate knew it was true. Despite the lip service paid by Western countries that they wouldn’t negotiate with terrorists, the reality was far different. Eastgate had personally negotiated the release of a fellow Green Beret from the Taliban. The cost: $5 million. Compared to the bribes the military and CIA were offering to warlords and tribal leaders in Afghanistan and Iraq, it was a bargain price.
“From what I can tell, Iraq is now our greatest enemy,” Frye said, scratching his elbow, the skin cracked and flaking. “We’ve invaded twice, right?”
Eastgate had not thought of Iraq in those terms, but based on the expenditure of blood and treasure, Frye was clearly right.
“I was in Baghdad when we were running arms to support Saddam Hussein in the war with Iran. He was no prince, but what the hell did he do to be invaded twice?”
“It’s complicated,” Eastgate said.
“It always is.” Frye’s gray hair looked like a ball of ashes. His teeth were yellow and mossy. “The politicians don’t bother explaining, or they just make up a reason. So why the hell didn’t I talk when I had the chance?”
“Why don’t you talk now?”
“They stopped asking, stopped caring. About five years after they put me in here, the interrogations stopped. I always thought there would be more interrogations, more opportunities to think it over, to make a hard choice. My family would have understood. That’s all I cared about. But there weren’t other chances.”
“Why did they stop?” Olivia asked.
Frye moved in closer. His skin was gray and saggy. His mouth was dry and blistered. The blue and black lines around his eyes gave him the look of a half-starved animal.
“After a while, I think they realized they already knew all my secrets worth knowing.”
“Intelligence has a fast expiration date,” Eastgate said.
Frye nodded, as if he was acknowledging the sound of his own death knell. “My advice: take any deal they give you. Is your pride worth ending up like me?”
Chapter 59
When it came to aiding his own family, Dashni was reluctant to pull on the levers of power unless absolutely necessary. But after four voicemails had failed to rouse any response from the Cambridge Police Department, his irritation reached its boiling point. A half hour later the police chief received a phone call from Dashni’s fellow cabinet member, the home secretary, who made it clear that a detective would personally interview Dashni immediately or the chief would be sacked before his evening papers arrived. Of course, like almost everyone else, the chief stopped reading evening papers years ago, but he got the message.
“Chief Marsden of the Cambridge police is here to see you, sir,” Dashni’s secretary said.
Having been ignored by the Cambridge police for so long, Dashni was in no hurry to meet with Marsden. He also was aware of the home secretary’s threat, which put Marsden in a delightful fix.
“Wait until 4 p.m. Then tell him the foreign secretary is dealing with pressing matters of state and is not available until morning.”
“He says that it’s vital he meet with you this afternoon. He wouldn’t say why.”
Dashni smiled. He was being a prig, he knew, but haughty gamesmanship was expected of the foreign secretary. And Marsden’s department really was a mess. If the British foreign secretary could not get his calls returned, he doubted some poor bloke from Cambridgeshire could either.
“Alright, send in the groveling pig.”
Dashni put the phone receiver to his ear, as if on a call, and Marsden was led into Dashni’s domain.
Marsden stood in front of Dashni’s desk, his hat in hand.
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. I agree,” Dashni said into the phone receiver, looking away from Marsden. “Yes, I think we need to discuss this further. Unfortunately, a Chief Marsden from the Cambridge police is in my office insisting that I clear my calendar to meet with him.”
Dashni’s brow lifted, revealing his famous dark scowl, which was squarely focused on Marsden. His black eyes flashed lightning bolts of derision.
“Yes, I agree, the quality of our policing has deteriorated quite significantly. Yes, sir, something should be done about it.” Dashni nodded. “That’s Marsden. M-A-R-S-D-E-N. That’s right, sir.”
Dashni hung up the receiver. Leaning over slightly, he placed both hands on his desk. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir. It really is rude of me,” Dashni said. “You see, I had tried earlier in the week to reach someone in your department. Indeed, I had left five messages. No one returned my call. But I should have kept at it. It really was lazy of me not to. And I’m afraid that’s why I’ve inconvenienced you to leave your post today. Please do accept my most profound and sincere apologies.”
“No, sir, not at all. It is I who must apologize for my department’s poor—”
Dashni’s eyebrows raised.
“Very, very poor, truly abysmal performance.”
Clearing his throat and with a harrumph, as if to call an end to the theatrics, Dashni continued.
“Yes, well, let’s get on with it. It’s only my daughter’s life at stake.”
Marsden nervously coughed. “Your daughter, sir? The Garden of Eden lady?”
Dashni’s eyes rolled. He really loathed dealing with domestic matters. The civil service and police were staffed by imbeciles.
“I assume you are aware of the recent murder of one Professor Sidney Allison that your office is investigating?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“Good.”
“But what—”
“My daughter, Olivia Nazarian, is also a professor at Cambridge. She is a professor in the very same department in which Professor Allison was employed.” Dashni put extra emphasis on “was.”
“In fact, she and Professor Allison did a great deal of work together and were close friends.”
“I see, sir.”
“More to the point, my daughter is now missing,” Dashni shouted, pounding a spiral stack of papers down onto his desk, “and she has been since the day of Professor Allison’s murder.”
“My goodness, sir.”
“Now, I haven’t been trained in the investigative arts like yourself Marsden, but it seems to me that this may be an issue of conce
rn and pertinent to your investigation. I had assumed you were working on it. That’s why I called you.”
“I’m afraid we hadn’t been sir, but we certainly must now. Your daughter will need to be moved to our list of potential suspects.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Potential suspect, sir. Your daughter.”
Dashni nearly fell out of his chair. “Potential suspect? My daughter? Are you completely out of your mind, Marsden? Don’t you think it’s far more likely that she’s been kidnapped, injured, or worse, like Allison?”
“I suppose you’re right, sir.”
“And what possible motive would she have to murder a fellow archaeologist? Bad review in the academic journal? Failure to refill the coffee pot in the academic lounge? Good God, Marsden, use your bloody head.”
“Yes sir, you’re right. We’ll get started on the investigation right way.”
“No.”
“No, sir?”
“You will do no such thing.”
“Isn’t that why you called me down here, sir?”
“I called you down here assuming you had begun an investigation and to tell you to call it off.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“Marsden, if my daughter’s been kidnapped it would be a matter of national security.”
“Sir?”
“Based on who her father is.”
“You, sir.”
“That’s right, Marsden,” Dashni said mockingly. “Your powers of deduction are extraordinary.”
Marsden removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and swabbed a slick layer of sweat from his pink face.
“Now listen, Marsden. Kidnapping often can involve extortion, espionage, the activities of foreign actors and powers. In other words, it’s not a matter for the Cambridge plodders.”
“I see your point, sir.”
“And the last thing she needs, if she’s still alive, is for one of your flat-footed colleagues to disclose what has happened to the media. It would give her kidnapper exactly what they want—a national crisis over a missing celebrity and daughter of a government minister.”
