by Dale Brown
The three carried two sets of passports, American and Turkish. The Canadian officials confiscated the American passports on behalf of the United States—another condition of release—but allowed the group to use their Turkish passports to exit the country. They purchased Lufthansa airline tickets from Winnipeg to Istanbul. While in Istanbul they received a required letter of introduction from a former Turkmeni consular officer—price, one thousand dollars U.S. for the three of them—then purchased tickets on Turkmenistan Airlines to Ashkhabad.
Thirty grueling hours later after departing Minnesota, they were finally just a few miles from Iran. All they had to do was get safely past Turkmeni customs and immigration, and the Qagev security network would take them across the border. Unfortunately they did not have visas to enter Turkmenistan, and the Turkmeni government disliked foreigners who didn’t bother getting visas before trying to enter the country.
Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn’t hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.
The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.
“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.
“Only under very unusual circumstances—very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”
“No. Just business.”
“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”
“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.
“In your society it is not permitted—here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women’s frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I’d say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office’s holding cell—along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”
Najar sized up the officer, considering whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.
“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”
“Telecommunications software engineer.”
“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”
“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country’s wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”
“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”
“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover’s background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases—that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”
“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction with disdain, then said, “But what confuses me, sir, is why you would need to go through this particular person in Istanbul for a letter of introduction when you could have just as easily obtained a visa from the ministry of communications or a letter of introduction from RuTel—if you are indeed working with these agencies? This person in Istanbul is well-known to us as a letter-writing hack—he would give Satan himself a letter of introduction for a thousand dollars. Can you please explain this to me, sir?”
“Of course,” Najar said. “If I would have requested a letter from Mr. Saparov at RuTel, I would be beholden to him, and that is no way to begin any business negotiations. And I have not spoken to the minister about my deal because it has not been formalized to my shareholders’ satisfaction. We wish to go to His Honor Ashirov at the very least as equal partners with RuTel in this venture, preferably as majority partners. So the ministry was not obligated to grant us a visa since we have not been dealing with them at all yet.”
“I see,” the customs officer said. “I do not understand all this business psychology and maneuverings, but what you say makes a certain amount of sense to me.” He stamped something on the letter of introduction. “So you will be meeting with this Mr. Saparov at RuTel soon?”
“After I complete my due diligence and business proposal, I will,” Najar said. “But I wish to be fully prepared before I ask for a meeting. That may take a few days. That is why I requested only a ten-day business visa, with no re-entry privileges.” He withdrew and opened his wallet, letting the customs officer peek inside the billfold, revealing it fat with American dollars and Turkish new lira. “I am prepared to pay the expedited visa fee, in cash—it is four times the normal fee, is it not?” Najar knew the expedited fee was only twice the normal fee—he hoped the extra “incentive” would cause this guy to back off. He undoubtedly had most of this guy’s entire annual wages in his wallet right now.
“I see,” the customs officer intoned. He looked through the passports again, imperceptibly nodding his head. “Just so.” He got up from his chair and ordered, “Follow me.” Najar’s heart sank.
They were taken into a very small office just behind the service counter. Najar and Saidi could see no surveillance cameras—that was good. There was a long steel table in the center of the room, along with a telephone on a rickety wooden desk and inspection devices such as flashlights and rubber gloves. “Well,” the agent said after he locked the door behind them, “I think we shall have to meet with my supervisor for some additional information. We shall undoubtedly have to speak with Mr. Saparov and someone at the ministry’s office to confirm your story.”
“It is no story, sir—it is the truth,” Najar said, trying to remain calm. “But I will be happy to meet with the unit supervisor here, and I should like to inform the trade and commerce consul at the Turkish embassy of this exchange as well. I think he should be apprised at how unfairly one of its citizens is treated by Turkmenistan customs.”
The customs officer’s eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, sir? I assure you, that is most unwise.”
“Please, sir,” Azar said in crude but passable Turkmen, removing her scarf and affixing the customs officer with an imploring, desperate look, “please let my father, mother, and I come into your country.”
“Azar, no…!”
“Look, the China doll speaks!” the customs officer laughed.
Najar’s mouth tightened and his fists balled, but Azar touched his hand under the counter, ordering him to be calm. “Please, sir. My father has…he has sold everything to come here and make this deal—our home, our farm, his inheritance, everything,” Azar said. “My father is very smart and has many ways to help the people of your country, but
no one at the Russian phone company or in your government minister’s office will talk to him while he is in Turkey, so we came here together. My father brought us all here to Turkmenistan as a sign of his commitment to this project—this will be our home for many years if this deal is concluded. We have no place else to go and no money other than what my father carries with him. This is our last hope. Will you please help us, sir?”
The customs officer scowled at Najar. “So, you let your female child do the pleading for you, eh, Mister Telecommunications Engineer?” he scoffed. “That is a true Turkish businessman for you. And why does she learn Turkmeni when her father does not?” Najar forced himself to lower his eyes contritely. The customs officer chuckled. “Have you declared that foreign currency yet, sir?” Najar shook his head and handed him all the money out of his wallet—he noticed how quickly the customs officer hid it from sight with his hands and with the letter of introduction. “Any more to declare?” Najar turned, and Saidi withdrew another wad of bills from a pocket inside her robes.
“Ah, just so. As I thought. Not so delicate and feminine as to stop her from hiding foreign currency from a customs agent, eh?” The customs officer counted it all, separated all of the American dollars from the rest, slipped the greenbacks into his pants pocket, counted out a thousand dollars’ worth of Turkish new lira for the visa fees, logged the remainder, handed it over to Najar, and stamped the passports. “Five days tourist visa, no re-entry,” he said. “You must apply for a business visa before you contact the ministry of communications or anyone at RuTel—if you fail to do so, you could spend six months in jail for the violation, unless of course you have your lovely daughter talk them out of arresting you. You must check in at a hotel in the capital and surrender your passport to the manager within four hours or be in violation of the terms of your tourist visa.”
He handed back the passports, then looked at Azar, smiled evilly at Najar, pursed his lips as if giving her a kiss, and added, “What pretty eyes she has. I’ll bet she drives all the boys wild.” He grinned at Najar’s suppressed anger, laughed, then shook his head toward the exit. “Welcome to Turkmenistan.” Najar again forced himself to control his anger as he took his passports, bowed politely at the laughing customs officer, and turned to go.
They collected their bags at the inspection station. No one said a word outside. They tried to flag down a taxi, but a private citizen stopped first and offered them a ride. After a few moments of haggling, they settled on a price and piled into the broken-down, dilapidated Russian sedan.
The driver took them to the Tolkuchka Bazaar at the outskirts of Ashkhabad, which looked like the gaudiest Hollywood B-movie set of a bazaar they had ever seen—thousands of shoppers circulating around hundreds of merchants, some in multicolored tents but most just sitting on colorful carpets with their wares spread out before them. The sights and sounds were rich and varied, and Azar found her eyes wandering to the beautiful silks, silver, jewelry, and rugs on display.
But they had a job to do. Job one: make sure they were not being followed. They dared not look behind them in the car or speak except in conversational Turkish, fearing the driver to be a Turkmenistan National Committee for Security agent, so they didn’t know if they were being tailed and so assumed they were. They did several switchbacks, quick dodges, and reversals to try to spot any shadows, but didn’t spot any tails. Still not satisfied they were safe, they bought some lamb kebabs and tea and sat outside a camel corral with other visitors taking a break from the crush of people in the bazaar, safe from everyone except an occasional herder or vendor peddling something.
“Thank you for helping me at the airport, Shahdokht,” Najar said in a low voice.
“I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, but we did not want to be confronted by a superior officer—the more eyes around, the lesser chances we’d have of bribing our way into the country,” Azar said. “Thankfully you showed him your money—he was just looking for the right opportunity to be able to take it from you. What is our situation, Major?”
“We have just two hours before we’ll be reported for not surrendering our passports,” Najar said. “Hopefully that customs officer won’t be so efficient…”
“We have to assume he’ll be more efficient,” Azar said.
“Agreed, Shahdokht. Our network contact is supposed to meet us here at the bazaar, but I don’t know what he or she looks like or who it is, so they’ll have to make contact with us.”
“We’ll wait here and finish our wonderful meal, then lose ourselves in the crowd again until nightfall,” Azar said. She was serious about the food—she was afraid that the spicy, chewy meat would be too much for her stomach, but she enjoyed every bite. She looked toward the south. “Those must be the Kopetdag Mountains. I’ve read about them and seen pictures. They are beautiful.”
“That’s Mount Shahshah there,” Saidi said, pointing a bit to the west. “The Turkmenis claim it’s on their side of the border—based on Soviet surveyors’ claims, naturally—but it’s really in Iran. But wait until you see the Alborz Mountains north of Tehran and the volcano Mount Damavand. It’s almost twice as high as Shahshah, and it’s the largest volcano in Eurasia west of the Hindu Kush.”
“I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant,” Azar said. “I can’t wait to see the Caspian Sea—I only caught a glimpse of it from the air—and the Persian Gulf, and even the Great Salt Desert. Minnesota is nothing like my Iran.”
Another vendor wearing colorful robes and sashes, a red turban, and white skull cap wandered over, carrying a cart full of bags of hot pistachios, and Azar’s mouth watered again. The vendor saw this immediately and smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile. “Peace and happiness to you, my child,” he said in Turkmeni, bowing to Najar as a way of asking permission to address the girl. “Would you like some warm, satisfying pistachios? Just six thousand manat, freshly picked this morning and roasted right here just minutes ago, the best bargain in the whole bazaar!”
“Thank you, sir, and peace to you and your family as well,” Azar said in her best Turkmeni. She looked at Najar, and he nodded, keeping a careful eye on the vendor’s hands and the men behind him. A few other hawkers had started to cluster around nearby, waiting to see how much money these pilgrims would pull out. “All I have is Turkish new lira, sir.”
“Turkish lira! Even better, my child! But because that is not official currency here in Turkmenistan, I must ask for eight thousand manat, still a very great bargain for you, a pittance really if you consider the exchange rate between our currencies. I will be sure to give you more than enough of my succulent pistachios for all three of you.”
“That is generous of you, sir, but my father says I have spent enough and can only give you one thousand manat—fifty kurus.”
“Your father is wise and must be respected, child, but I have children of my own to feed,” the vendor said. “But in respect for your father and mother, I will sell an extra large bag to you for the original price—six thousand.”
“I’m afraid my blessed father will disapprove of any more than two thousand manat.”
The vendor bowed his head to Najar, who only scowled back. “I would not like to be the cause of any ill feelings whatsoever between such a powerful-looking gentleman and such a sweet child,” the pistachio seller said, “but I have a father, mother, six brothers, a wife, and four children to answer to as well—and a girlfriend or two, of course, but don’t tell my wife, please!” His chuckle subsided when he saw Najar’s scowl deepen. “I will tell you what, my child, in reward for being so good with me and for speaking our native tongue so well.” He brushed his hands together as if anticipating closing this deal immediately. “Four thousand manat for you, and not a tennesi more. The rest I shall receive when I see the pleasure in your faces as you enjoy my pistachios.”
“You are generous and patient, sir.” She counted out coins in her hand. “I have seventy kurus here, and I dare not ask my father for more—I have been too much of a burden to him alrea
dy on this trip. You will become the most generous man we have met in Turkmenistan if you accept.”
The vendor smiled, bit his index finger, then bowed. “Done, child, and may God smile on you.” Azar gave the coins to Najar, who gave them to the vendor. He indeed did portion out a very large bag of steaming pistachios and handed them over to Najar, who gave them to Azar without taking his eyes off the vendor. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, and may God continue to smile on you. Is there any other way I can serve you, child?”
“Like how?” Najar growled in Farsi.
“Like taking the Shahdokht and her royal bodyguards to her home,” the man replied in Farsi. He bowed slightly, taking a peek over his shoulder at the slowly growing number of vendors starting to move closer. “I’m sorry, Shahdokht, but it’s not every day you get to haggle over the price of a bag of pistachios with a member of the Persian royal family. Now, allow me to take you into the waiting arms of your loyal followers in your homeland. God be praised, our salvation is at hand! The blessed and powerful Qagev have returned!”
“You wasted a lot of time,” Saidi said.
“I decided that simply approaching you without at least trying to make a sale would look bad,” he said. “I’ve been here at the bazaar for three years, waiting for this blessed day for the true rulers of Persia’s return, God be praised. I know the bazaar well.”
“The transaction attracted too much attention,” Najar said perturbedly. “Where can we meet?”
“My truck is parked at the far northwest vendor lot, beside the bicycles,” the man replied. “I suggest…”
But suddenly there was a commotion behind him, and moments later two Soviet-era light infantry vehicles and a sedan burst toward the corral. Three Turkmeni soldiers jumped out of the vehicle, and a man in a plain dark business suit emerged from the sedan. Najar and Saidi were on their feet faster than Azar had ever seen them move before.
