by Tony Criddle
“Most of them are Baha’i. It’s peculiar to Iran, fairly progressive, and fairly casual. They don’t even pretend to be Islamic. Some to the north and west are even Christian, and a few down south Zoroastrians. I had a job in Sri Lanka once and it’s the only other place I’ve been where the religions mix so freely. The mosques and churches over there have even got places set aside for other religions to worship at, and here they celebrate each other’s holidays quite happily.” Nick Evans must have looked sceptical.
“Trust me mate, would this face lie?” His smile was almost cherubic. “Obviously they have quite a few celebrations and holy days, whoever’s doesn’t matter, and they slurp large quantities of a particularly vicious home-made hooch when they’re doing it. None of the women wear chadors either, and not many of them even bother with headscarves. If you’ve got to live in Iran mate, it’s the place to be.”
Sinclair stopped outside the end house of a block of eight, and a buxom older woman jerked the door open and approached with open arms even before they’d climbed out. She slopped a kiss on Jock’s craggy cheek then ignored Nick’s proffered hand and hugged him tightly. He heard his ribs creak. She did the same to Webster, but Imran obviously knew what would happen and was already heading for next door with an airy wave.
“Nick and Floyd, this is Sarah.” That was it. Sinclair dragged the baggage from the rear of the vehicle and helped move it towards the house. Nick stopped and looked around the small paved courtyard.
Somehow desert areas weren’t meant to look so snow-blown and frigid, but already he knew better. The construction made sense. A seven foot high, adobe wall squared up the ‘L’ of the house with the one next door, and formed the small paved patio he stood in. Unpaved areas within it allowed hardy cacti and dark green, animated date palms to grow, and bare bushes nestling amongst them were worked around two rustic wooden benches anchored firmly to the stout outer wall. Although denuded for the winter Nick could see they were roses and had read somewhere that the rose was Iran’s national flower. They were bound to be there somewhere. Nick nodded unconsciously. The courtyards would be cool in summer and sheltered from blasts of icy wind in winter, and the exuberant flowers would get some protection too.
The only other fixture was a battered, galvanised tank on a timer plinth leaning against the outer wall in one corner, the top not completely parallel with the base. Sinclair saw where he was looking and grinned.
“That’s the real bit of luxury Nick. Water gets pumped up from one of the wells into the tank in the few houses with power, and they get plumbed into the houses. Running water is real up-market around here.”
Nick followed the others inside, dropped his bags and waited for his pupils to widen. Webster had already dumped his bag into a bedroom pointed out by Sarah.
“We’ll want a drink first up laddie, so what’s your poison? The guy you relieved left some bottles, but there’s only whisky or brandy and some wine until we run up to the embassy.”
Nick opted for whisky, Webster a brandy and Sarah declined on her way to the kitchen.
“Sarah’s cooked up stew for us Nick, but it won’t be ready for a while. I’ll give you some more stuff until then. You might want an early night.”
“Sounds good to me mate. I’m knackered, but why don’t I have a look around first? It might save some nattering.”
“Okay laddie, it’ll give me more time with the bottle.” Sinclair’s face creased and Nick smiled too, but he already suspected that booze compensated for something else in the Scot’s life. Nick sipped from his drink before putting down his glass.
The inside of the house looked more familiar. Comfortable furniture and light, highly polished woodwork demonstrated a significant European influence, with armchairs, a settee, a cabinet and a television filling the sitting area. A dining area and kitchen squatted in the short ‘L’ at the end of the room, while a wooden table and chairs showed where they ate. An elderly oven and stainless steel sink unit were pressed against two walls in the kitchen, and fridges propped up a third. One was electric, but one obviously ran on kerosene, and a medium sized chest freezer butted up against that. Nick eased back into the sitting area and took another sip before drifting towards the passageway.
The floors were also compacted earth, as hard as concrete, and the bedrooms sported portiere not doors. He ran the heavy, woollen curtains through his fingers. They were as thick and heavy as carpets, the wool in vivid primary colours of red, blue and yellow, and several similar squares adorned the sitting room walls. Obviously it was a local craft. At first he thought the bedrooms would be indigenous as well, but when he moved the curtains aside Europe was in there too. The rooms were still on the gloomy side and the windows narrow and high. He snapped on a light.
All three bedrooms looked the same, with a double bed, a wardrobe and a dresser pushed hard against the walls. There were no drapes on any of the small windows while in the truncated bathroom an exhaust fan compensated for no windows at all. It was comfortable enough without being flashy.
Nick wandered out to the lounge area again and nodded to Sinclair. “I’m happy enough Jock, but why are the windows so small, and what’s the rent like?” Sinclair squirmed more upright.
“Glass is bloody expensive out here Nick so you don’t see much outside cities, but the rent’s dead cheap. We pay a bigger duty free booze bill than we do rent.”
Nick was content and nodded his satisfaction.
Chapter Eight
It didn’t take Nick long to organise a simple routine, but then again it could hardly be called taxing. He’d flown Jet Rangers in Australia so he’d only needed a flight test before he left for Iran, and was flying on his second day at Qom. The company brief hadn’t specified a flight schedule either. It had been left up to him. He had a get-together with the others and they elected for a flight at 8.30 in the morning and another at three in the afternoon. That gave them most of the daylight hours for shopping and servicing, and an early or later light was better for surveying.
It was fine on paper, but as the weeks slipped by Nick realised that Jock had his maintenance to keep abreast of and Floyd his maps and reports to fiddle with. Only he was bored.
It was the Kavir that got his interest at first. The mobile bands of red, white, and yellow sands shimmered and wrestled incessantly to dominate each other, and rounded, puce mountains of weather blasted rocks westward also provided some relief from the gritty expanses. They were often vague and distorted by mirages, or lost all together in streaks of hazy azure, and sometimes he had to get airborne before they came into focus at all. It was bland, very bland, and it wasn’t long before he yearned for the lush greenery he was used to.
Sure verdant, fertile fields ran along the river banks, getting browner and drier as they got higher, and larger, more majestic trees struggled in the lower gullies of the foothills, but the open desert supported little more than a few gnarled and stunted bushes. Colossi they weren’t, and so sparse that they could be counted on one hand in any square mile of tumbling sand. Some light relief was provided by the antics of a myriad of tiny desert finches that inhabited them thickly enough to snap off dry dead branches with loud cracks.
Most days were hot and dry and crowned by endless metallic blue skies, with nights as clear as crystal and bitterly cold. But huge stars, flashing like diamonds tossed haphazardly on black velvet, did make up for those frigid, dangerous temperatures. Artificial light wasn’t much of a competitor out in those lonely, undulating dust bowls, so there wasn’t a lot else to look at anyway. It was not a place for city dwellers.
The early morning flight was long over when spiralling dust devils started dancing half-heartedly before a strengthening breeze. Nick Evans collapsed his five-foot-ten frame into a battered, chintzy armchair in front of the plate glass window. He’d spent most of his adult life wearing uniforms or suits so jeans and a short sleeve shirt were now as formal as it got.
He rested his scuffed desert suedes on the sill, retrie
ved his coffee from the floor and scanned the hills idly. He sipped from a mug that had been a laconic present from his engineer that said something about FIG JAM. After a few gulps he replaced the coffee mug with Zeiss 10 × 10s.
He already looked as if he belonged there. His skin was darkish from the inevitable tan and savage suns and high winds had etched a few more creases in his face than his thirty-six years might have done on their own. Really, he was an epitome of the Celtic Welsh, but the normal sing-song lilt of the Welsh voice had largely been bred out of him. Rugby had re-shaped his nose slightly too, but he did smile easily enough even though it tended towards the whimsical. He was more ruggedly manly than he was pretty.
Both choppers needed some time-based maintenance that morning so Jock Sinclair had designated it a non-flying day. The water was on the boil when Sinclair came up from the hangar with his boys and signalled for coffees all round. Nick complied with a slight smile suspecting it was another test, but made them anyway. Sinclair was about to comment but was distracted by a troop carrier pulling up in a cloud of fine sand and squealing brake pads.
His voice vibrated in a harsh whisper. “Careful Nick, the bastards never came out here before.”
What looked like some sort of policeman alighted as Sinclair and Nick moved to the entrance veranda. He wore a black shirt with a few gaudily colourful badges sewn onto it and light blue jeans with a handgun strapped to his belt. He hadn’t shaved in days. Nick stepped down the steps and held out his hand.
“Nick Evans” he offered warily. The policeman would have looked menacing enough without the squint and the armed trooper that backed him up. He ignored the proffered hand.
“I know who you are Evans. All foreign companies have been instructed to report any staff changes.” His English was fractured but understandable.
Nick let his hand drop. “Fine, so you know what we do. How can I help?”
“My name is Mohammed Arak, but you can call me Mister Arak.” He was deadly serious. “The revolutionary government is taking a greater interest in what is happening in our country so I wanted to see what went on out here. We need more control Evans. From now on you will fly only one flight a day and report to the blue mosque in Qom if you want more. You will drive, not fly to Tehran, and in future you are not to overfly any Iranian cities or establishments. Your flying is restricted to the Zagros only.”
Nicks eyes half closed. He turned towards Sinclair but the Scot gave nothing away.
“That’s not a major problem mate. If the company wants to make an issue of it, they can.”
Nick nodded. “Fine by us Mister Arak, but the less flying we do the less we’re likely to find.”
“We can up the rate or nationalise everything if we want to Evans. We’ll let you know.” The askew eyes bored into Nick’s in turn then Arak turned his back. Minutes later they were heading back to Qom.
Nick made a call to Tehran as soon as he was back inside, but the company was either being non-committal or cautious. Comply, don’t rock the boat. The revolution had dragged in a naked hostility towards the West that wasn’t there before and they’d learned to tread carefully. He was infuriated and slammed down the phone. Sinclair beetled his brows.
“They haven’t got any answers for what’s going on, and they’ve told us to do what the pricks want. I‘m sure they’ve got more clout than that mate. They’re a bunch of fucking pussies.”
Sinclair nodded slightly, his eyes slitted.
“Well, I reckon the first thing we need is some accurate information laddie. We can’t plan until we know what’s really going down, but maybe we should start protecting ourselves just in case.”
“I’ll buy that, and our best source of info is the Brit Embassy. No flying again tomorrow, we’ll run up north instead. We could do with some duty free and Floyd can always drop off a couple of reports to the company.”
“Sounds like a plan mate. Gerry Hawkins will know what’s going on, and I’m going around the bloody twist with things as they are. You tell Floyd while I finish up here, but I’m driving. I know how to get there.”
Nick didn’t argue.
They set off at eight, and to Nick it seemed like a holiday, that morning was like a day release from prison. He kept Sinclair busy with his questions and Webster contributed his share. They dropped the Canadian at the company and were headed for Ferdowsi Avenue in what seemed like no time at all.
Hawkins was expecting them. Nick had let him know the day before and the diplomat descended the stairs two at a time. He thrust out a hand and shepherded them to a side room.
Hawkins had swotted up on the politics of his posting long before he’d arrived, and since then he’d learned a lot more. It was a tight situation with an uncertain outcome and the Ambassador had told him to play it close to his chest. And Hawkins was a game player. He was sympathetic but he let their questions dictate how deep he went.
“So what’s happening Nick, how can we help?”
“We’ve just had a visit from some bloke in Qom who I’m sure does the mullah’s dirty work. He’s already restricted our flying and made a few veiled threats about our operation, but the company seems a bit coy about doing anything. I want to know where we stand.”
Hawkins nodded and unconsciously brushed his trousers while he thought.
“You know that the population is pretty diverse here, but perhaps not how far back it goes. Some of the groups here can trace their origins to Alexander the Great, some go back even beyond that, and the Arab legions didn’t invade until ad 640, of course.” He thought some more.
“Add separatist Kurds in the high country to that, and also some minority religions and meddling by Western countries over the last 300 years and it makes for quite a disjointed history. Coups have been two-a-penny around here for decades, five in this century alone. It’s always been about religion as well, and that’s what it’s about now.”
Nick nodded. “I know the shah got ousted and replaced by a Muslim sect but I’m not sure how that affects us.”
“Okay. It was the Savat’s funeral as well, so they did some pretty ordinary things to prop him up, and the opposition came mostly from Muslim’s. The shah was fairly progressive and was quite close to America by Eastern standards, so the Arabs tried the religious card this time, and that was a winner.” He shifted uncomfortably.
“The shah exiled Khomeini way back in ’64 but he had to let him back in again after that because of popular demand. Khomeini screamed for an election right away, and promised he’d take Iran back to fundamental Islamic law if he was elected. He’s the daddy of all Shi’ites he’s got some pretty strict edicts, but it didn’t seem to matter to a lot of people. The Sunni’s down south are a bit more relaxed, and they and the minority religions hate the Shia, but obviously a lot of people don’t. They voted him in with an election that seemed a bit dodgy to us, but the world saw it as democracy in action.”
“Jesus, so it’s still a huge bloody mess and our biggest problem is we work for an American company.”
Hawkins nodded. “You two are British subjects though, and that counts for something.”
“So are things improving?”
“Not from what we can see, Jock. To be honest, we’re sure the new regime would have done the shah in if they could have, but they knew the United Nations would go ape and didn’t want to risk it. They may not be so lenient with other Persians that displease them.”
“So what’s your best guess?”
“We don’t see any need for drastic action right away. Most of this is internal so carry on doing what you do, but keep your heads down. Now that you’ve expressed concerns formally we can put you on an official list, and your names will be filed as being protected by the embassy. I suggest you phone us once a week from now on so we can keep you updated. If things look really dodgy we’ll bring you in.”
“Right Gerry, we’ll do that, and we’ll need a top up from duty free before we go. The only other thing is how do I get a gun licence?”
“Christ, you aren’t planning a stand-off are you?” From his face Nick couldn’t say whether Hawkins was serious or not. Nick smiled.
“Course not, but all I’ve had to eat since I got here are stews. There’s nothing wrong with them, but I fancy something a bit different sometime. I’ve seen gazelle and wild goat amongst other things in the hills and my housekeeper says that the locals knock them over when they can.”
Hawkins grinned. “Okay Nick. There isn’t anything hard and fast about owning guns, other than licences for hand guns in cities. Half the frigging country is armed anyway, and a lot of hunting goes on around the Caspian. There’s a big sports shop on the other side of Ferdowsi, about 200 yards south. I’ll give you a certificate for a rifle and they’ll log it to the embassy. Is there anything else before I fill it in?”
“No thanks mate. We’ll pick up the Canadian and be on our way home after a top-up.”
Chapter Nine
Lank moth-eaten camels and pale, fast donkeys had often crossed Nick’s path on flights in the hills but they weren’t practical for the pot. Nimble ochre gazelle or the incredibly agile ibex were something else again. With that in mind he’d selected an expensive Tikka .222 hunting rifle of Finnish origin, with a powerful scope. And the bug had bitten, so he treated himself to a pair of spinning rods and a box of tackle to fish the high mountain streams with. An hour after getting home the rifle was cleaned, he’d loaded the small magazine with three cartridges, and both rods were rigged with lures.
Jock had returned to his own pad by the time Nick stowed it. Sarah was making coffee.
“What’s the difference between Shi’ites, Sunnies and Baha’i Sarah?”
She brought the brews to the dining table and sat down before she spoke.
“Sharia law becoming most popular for Iran and countries nearby now Nickie. It old Islam. Four wives for men, no teach or working for women, nobody allowed strong drink and men say who women can marry. City men like it, more jobs and learning for them. If wives don’t do as told or they not like her, just tell her to go with words or even punish her bad. Not work in the country though.” She paused to sip her drink.
