by Ken Follett
The headlights picked out two men standing beside the road, waving them down. There was no barrier. Rashid did not brake.
"I guess we'd better stop," Simons said.
Rashid kept going right past the two men.
"I said stop!" Simons barked.
Rashid stopped.
Bill stared out through the windshield and said: "Would you look at that?"
A few yards ahead was a bridge over a ravine. On either side of the bridge, tribesmen were emerging from the ravine. They kept coming--thirty, forty, fifty--and they were armed to the teeth.
It looked very like an ambush. If the cars had tried to rush the checkpoint, they would have been shot full of holes.
"Thank God we stopped," Bill said fervently.
Rashid jumped out of the car and started talking. The tribesmen put a chain across the bridge and surrounded the cars. It rapidly became clear that these were the most unfriendly people the team had yet encountered. They surrounded the cars, glaring in and hefting their rifles, while two or three of them started yelling at Rashid.
It was maddening, Bill thought, to have come so far, through so much danger and adversity, only to be stopped by a bunch of dumb farmers. Wouldn't they just like to take these two fine Range Rovers and all our money? he thought. And who would ever know?
The tribesmen got meaner. They started pushing and shoving Rashid. In a minute they'll start shooting, Bill thought.
"Do nothing," Simons said. "Stay in the car, let Rashid handle it."
Bill decided Rashid needed some help. He touched his pocket rosary and started praying. He said every prayer he knew. We're in God's hands now, he thought; it will take a miracle to get us out of this mess.
In the second car Coburn sat frozen while a tribesman outside pointed a rifle directly at his head.
Gayden, sitting behind, was seized by a wild impulse, and whispered: "Jay! Why don't you lock the door!"
Coburn felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his throat.
Rashid felt he was on the cliff-edge of death.
These tribesmen were bandits, and they would kill you for the coat on your back: they didn't care. The revolution was nothing to them. No matter who was in power, they recognized no government, obeyed no laws. They did not even speak Farsi, the language of Iran, but Turkish.
They pushed him around, yelling at him in Turkish. He yelled right back in Farsi. He was getting nowhere. They're working themselves up to shoot us all, he thought.
He heard the sound of a car. A pair of headlights approached from the direction of Rezaiyeh. A Land Rover pulled up and three men got out. One of them was dressed in a long black overcoat. The tribesmen seemed to defer to him. He addressed Rashid. "Let me see the passports, please."
"Sure," said Rashid. He led the man to the second Range Rover. Bill was in the first, and Rashid wanted the overcoat man to get bored with looking at passports before he got to Bill's. Rashid tapped on the car window, and Paul rolled it down. "Passports."
The man seemed to have dealt with passports before. He examined each one carefully, checking the photograph against the face of the owner. Then, in perfect English, he asked questions: Where were you born? Where do you live? What is your date of birth? Fortunately Simons had made Paul and Bill learn every piece of information contained in their false passports, so Paul was able to answer the overcoat man's questions without hesitation.
Reluctantly, Rashid led the man to the first Range Rover. Bill and Keane Taylor had changed seats, so that Bill was on the far side, away from the light. The man went through the same routine. He looked at Bill's passport last. Then he said: "The picture is not of this man."
"Yes, it is," Rashid said frantically. "He's been very sick. He's lost weight, his skin has changed color--don't you understand that he's dying? He has to get back to America as quickly as possible so he can have the right medical attention, and you are delaying him--do you want him to die because the Iranian people had no pity for a sick man? Is this how you uphold the honor of our country? Is--"
"They're Americans," the man said. "Follow me."
He turned and went into the little brick hut beside the bridge.
Rashid followed him in. "You have no right to stop us," he said. "I have been instructed by the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee in Rezaiyeh to escort these people to the border, and to delay us is a counterrevolutionary crime against the Iranian people." He flourished the letter written by the deputy leader and stamped with the library stamp.
The man looked at it. "Still, that one American does not look like the picture in his passport."
"I told you, he has been sick!" Rashid yelled. "They have been cleared to the border by the revolutionary committee! Now get these bandits out of my way!"
"We have our own revolutionary committee," the man said. "You will all have to come to our headquarters."
Rashid had no choice but to agree.
Jay Coburn watched Rashid come out of the hut with the man in the long black overcoat. Rashid looked really shook.
"We're going to their village to be checked out," Rashid said. "We have to go in their cars."
It was looking bad, Coburn thought. All the other times they had been arrested, they had been allowed to stay in the Range Rovers, which made them feel a little less like prisoners. Getting out of the cars was like losing touch with base.
Also, Rashid had never looked so frightened.
They all got into the tribesmen's vehicles, a pickup truck and a battered little station wagon. They were driven along a dirt track through the mountains. The Range Rovers followed, driven by tribesmen. The track twisted away into darkness. Well, shit, this is it, Coburn thought; nobody will ever hear from us again.
After three or four miles they came to the village. There was one brick building with a courtyard: the rest were mud-brick huts with thatched roofs. But in the courtyard were six or seven fine jeeps. Coburn said: "Jesus, these people live by stealing cars." Two Range Rovers would make a nice addition to their collection, he thought.
The two vehicles containing the Americans were parked in the courtyard; then the Range Rovers; then two more jeeps, blocking the exit and precluding a quick getaway.
They all got out.
The man in the overcoat said: "You need not be afraid. We just need to talk with you awhile; then you can go on." He went into the brick building.
"He's lying!" Rashid hissed.
They were herded into the building and told to take off their shoes. The tribesmen were fascinated by Keane Taylor's cowboy boots: one of them picked up the boots and inspected them, then passed them around for everyone to see.
The Americans were led into a big, bare room, with a Persian rug on the floor and bundles of rolled-up bedding pushed against the walls. It was dimly lit by some kind of lantern. They sat in a circle, surrounded by tribesmen with rifles.
On trial again, just like Mahabad, Coburn thought.
He kept an eye on Simons.
In came the biggest, ugliest mullah they had ever seen; and the interrogation began again.
Rashid did the talking, in a mixture of Farsi, Turkish, and English. He produced the letter from the library again, and gave the name of the deputy leader. Someone went off to check with the committee in Rezaiyeh. Coburn wondered how they would do that: the oil lamp indicated there was no electricity here, so how could they have phones? All the passports were examined again. People kept coming in and going out.
What if they have got a phone? wondered Coburn. And what if the committee in Rezaiyeh has heard from Dadgar?
We might be better off if they do check us out, he thought; at least that way somebody knows we're here. At the moment we could be killed, our bodies would disappear without a trace in the snow, and nobody would ever know we had been here.
A tribesman came in, handed the library letter to Rashid, and spoke to the mullah.
"It's okay," Rashid said. "We've been cleared."
Suddenly the whole atmosphere cha
nged.
The ugly mullah turned into the Jolly Green Giant and shook hands with everyone. "He welcomes you to his village," Rashid translated. Tea was brought. Rashid said: "We are invited to be the guests of the village for the night."
Simons said: "Tell him definitely no. Our friends are waiting for us at the border."
A small boy of about ten years appeared. In an effort to cement the new friendship, Keane Taylor took out a photograph of his son Michael, aged eleven, and showed it to the tribesmen. They got very excited, and Rashid said: "They want to have their pictures taken."
Gayden said: "Keane, get out your camera."
"I'm out of film," said Taylor.
"Keane, get out your fucking camera."
Taylor took out his camera. In fact, he had three shots left, but he had no flash, and would have needed a camera far more sophisticated than his Instamatic to take pictures by the light of the lantern. But the tribesmen lined up, waving their rifles in the air, and Taylor had no option but to snap them.
It was incredible. Five minutes earlier these people had seemed ready to murder the Americans: now they were horsing around, hooting and hollering and having a good time.
They could probably change again just as quickly.
Taylor's sense of humor took over and he started hamming it up, making like a press photographer, telling the tribesmen to smile or move closer together so he could get them all in, "taking" dozens of shots.
More tea was brought. Coburn groaned inwardly. He had drunk so much tea in the last few days that he felt awash with it. He surreptitiously poured his out, making an ugly brown stain on the gorgeous rug.
Simons said to Rashid: "Tell them we have to go."
There was a short exchange; then Rashid said: "We must drink tea once more."
"No," said Simons decisively, and he stood up. "Let's move." Smiling calmly, nodding and bowing to the tribesmen, Simons started giving very sharp commands in a voice that belied his courteous demeanor: "On your feet, everybody. Get your shoes on. Come on, let's get out of here, let's go."
They all got up. Every man in the tribe wanted to shake hands with every one of the visitors. Simons kept herding them toward the door. They found their shoes and put them on, still bowing and shaking hands. At last they got outside and climbed into the Range Rovers. There was a wait, while the villagers maneuvered the two jeeps blocking the exit. At last they moved off, following the same two jeeps along the mountain track.
They were still alive, still free, still moving.
The tribesmen took them to the bridge, then said goodbye.
Rashid said: "But aren't you going to escort us to the border?"
"No," one of them replied. "Our territory ends at the bridge. The other side belongs to Sero."
The man in the long black overcoat shook hands with everyone in both Range Rovers. "Don't forget to send us the pictures," he said to Taylor.
"You bet," said Taylor with a straight face.
The chain across the bridge was down. The two Range Rovers drove to the far side and accelerated up the road.
"I hope we don't have the same trouble at the next village," said Rashid. "I saw the head man this afternoon and arranged everything with him."
The Range Rover built up speed.
"Slow down," said Simons.
"No, we must hurry."
They were a mile or so from the border.
Simons said: "Slow the goddam jeep down. I don't want to get killed at this point in the game."
They were driving past what looked like a filling station. There was a little hut with a light on inside. Suddenly Taylor yelled: "Stop! Stop!"
Simons said: "Rashid--"
In the following car Paul honked and flashed his headlights.
Out of the corner of his eye Rashid saw two men running out from the filling station, locking and loading their rifles as they ran.
He stood on the brake.
The car screeched to a halt. Paul had already stopped, right by the gas station. Rashid backed up and jumped out.
The two men pointed their rifles at him.
Here we go again, he thought.
He went into his routine, but they weren't interested. One of them got into each car. Rashid climbed back into the driving seat.
"Drive on," he was told.
A minute later they were at the foot of the hill leading to the border. They could see the lights of the frontier station up above. Rashid's captor said: "Turn right."
"No," said Rashid. "We've been cleared to the border and--"
The man raised his rifle and thumbed the safety.
Rashid stopped the car. "Listen, I came to your village this afternoon and got permission to pass--"
"Go down there."
They were less than half a mile from Turkey and freedom. There were seven of the Dirty Team against two guards. It was tempting...
A jeep came tearing down the hill from the border station and skidded to a stop in front of the Range Rover. An excited young man jumped out, carrying a pistol, and ran over to Rashid's window.
Rashid wound down the window and said: "I'm under orders from the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee--"
The excited young man pointed his pistol at Rashid's head. "Go down the track!" he screamed.
Rashid gave in.
They drove along the track. It was even narrower than the last. The village was less than a mile away. When they arrived, Rashid jumped out of the car, saying: "Stay here--I'll deal with this."
Several men came out of the huts to see what was going on. They looked even more like bandits than the inhabitants of the last village. Rashid said loudly: "Where is the head man?"
"Not here," someone replied.
"Then fetch him. I spoke to him this afternoon--I am a friend of his--I have permission from him to cross the border with these Americans."
"Why are you with Americans?" someone asked.
"I am under orders from the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee--"
Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared the head man of the village, to whom Rashid had spoken in the afternoon. He came up and kissed Rashid on both cheeks.
In the second Range Rover, Gayden said: "Hey, it's looking good!"
"Thank God for that," said Coburn. "I couldn't drink any more tea to save my life."
The man who had kissed Rashid came over. He was wearing a heavy Afghan coat. He leaned through the car window and shook hands with everyone.
Rashid and the two guards got back into the cars.
A few minutes later they were climbing the hill to the frontier station.
Paul, driving the second car, suddenly thought about Dadgar again. Four hours ago, in Rezaiyeh, it had seemed sensible to abandon the idea of crossing the border on horseback, avoiding the road and the station. Now he was not so sure. Dadgar might have sent pictures of Paul and Bill to every airport, seaport, and border crossing. Even if there were no government people here, the photographs might be stuck up on a wall somewhere. The Iranians seemed to be glad of any excuse to detain Americans and question them. All along EDS had underestimated Dadgar...
The frontier station was brightly lit by high neon lamps. The two cars drove slowly along, past the buildings, and stopped where a chain across the road marked the limit of Iranian territory.
Rashid got out.
He spoke to the guards at the station, then came back and said: "They don't have a key to unloosen the chain."
They all got out.
Simons said to Rashid: "Go over to the Turkish side and see if Boulware's there."
Rashid disappeared.
Simons lifted the chain. It would not go high enough to let a Range Rover pass underneath.
Somebody found a few planks and leaned them on the chain, to see whether the cars could be driven over the chain on the planks. Simons shook his head: it was not going to work.
He turned to Coburn. "Is there a hacksaw in the tool kit?"
Coburn went back to the car.
Paul and Gayden lit cigarettes. Gayden said: "You need to decide what you want to do with that passport."
"What do you mean?"
"Under American law there's a ten-thousand-dollar fine and a jail term for using a false passport. I'll pay the fine, but you'll have to serve the jail term."
Paul considered. So far he had broken no laws. He had shown his false passport, but only to bandits and revolutionaries, who had no real right to demand passports anyway. It would be kind of nice to stay on the right side of the law.
"That's right," said Simons. "Once we're out of this goddam country we break no laws. I don't want to have to get you out of a Turkish jail."
Paul gave the passport to Gayden. Bill did the same. Gayden gave the passports to Taylor, who put them down the sides of his cowboy boots.
Coburn came back with a hacksaw. Simons took it from him and started sawing the chain.
The Iranian guards rushed over and started yelling at him.
Simons stopped.
Rashid came back from the Turkish side, trailing a couple of guards and an officer. He spoke to the Iranians, then told Simons: "You can't cut the chain. They say we must wait until morning. Also, the Turks don't want us to cross tonight."
Simons muttered to Paul: "You may be about to get sick."
"What do you mean?"
"If I tell you so, just get sick, okay?"
Paul saw what Simons was thinking: the Turkish guards wanted to sleep, not spend the night with a crowd of Americans, but if one of the Americans was in urgent need of hospital treatment they could hardly turn him away.
The Turks went back over to their own side.
"What do we do now?" Coburn said.
"Wait," said Simons.
All but two of the Iranian guards went into their guardhouse : it was bitterly cold.
"Make like we're prepared to wait all night," said Simons.
The other two guards drifted off.
"Gayden, Taylor," Simons said. "Go in there and offer the guards money to take care of our cars."
"Take care of them?" Taylor said incredulously. "They'll just steal them."
