Ultimatum, page 15
‘So you said, the last time we met, in the Bluebird restaurant.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘The time you ran out on me.’
‘Hey, hey, hey, that’s not fair, Tannaz. I didn’t run out on you. I had to go and deal with a sick relative, as I told you.’ Not entirely untrue, but best to move on quickly. ‘So, will it ever change here, d’you think?’
She looked down and stirred the thick residue of fruit at the bottom of her glass with the straw. ‘It depends … There are some people, like my father, I suppose, who want to keep Iran isolated, like an island. Or a big prison. But change is happening. We have more freedoms now and at least we have elections.’
Luke took a last mouthful of soup before answering. It had gone cold but he needed a moment to think, given the path he was about to take. ‘Don’t you ever wish,’ he said slowly, ‘that you could, you know, help speed up that change? Like, help to open up Iran to the rest of the world? Take it to a better place. In your lifetime.’
Tannaz gave him a quizzical look. ‘How do you mean?’ she said.
Careful here. One step at a time. Luke paused before answering, looking first around the café. He noticed that the boy in the T-shirt had been replaced by an older man in a white apron. He was shuffling around with a teapot, refilling people’s glasses without waiting to be asked, and standing by the door a very young girl in a headscarf, maybe just ten years old, was selling flowers, but no one was paying him or Tannaz any attention.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems pretty black and white to me. There are the good guys, your lot, people who want to give Iranians a bit more freedom to breathe. Modernize the economy and all that. And then there are the regressives, those who seem to be permanently stuck in a revolutionary mindset, the clock stopped in 1979.’
Tannaz laughed and pushed away her glass, resting her hands on the table once more. ‘Yes, this is true,’ she conceded.
Luke studied her for a moment. She seemed relaxed and at ease. This was her home environment and she obviously liked this café. It was time to turn it up a notch. ‘So, listen, Tannaz,’ he said, as casually as he could, looking down at his hands and intertwining his fingers, ‘I have a friend back home. He works in human rights – a group called Citizens Concern. I hope you don’t mind but he’s done a little digging. You told me your dad was with “those people”, the processionists, you know, the hardliners.’
Tannaz looked up sharply. She wasn’t laughing any more. She was listening very intently. ‘You’ve been checking up on my dad?’
‘Not me. My friend.’ Luke was struggling now to keep his tone light. ‘I just happened to mention your dad’s name to him.’ He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile but the colour had drained from her face.
Tannaz looked furious. ‘But how is that possible?’ she said. ‘I never told you his name.’
Chapter 39
Tehran
EVERYTHING SEEMED TO have frozen between them. All around, plates clattered and glasses clinked, other people’s conversations rose and fell, but Luke and Tannaz just looked at each other. For Luke, in that one moment, Café Rameez threatened to become a very dangerous place indeed. He knew he needed to retrieve the situation or things could spin badly out of control and he’d be in deep trouble. Tannaz Zamani, far from being a prospective informant, could just as easily turn into the catalyst for his arrest and trial. ‘No, you’re right. You didn’t,’ he told her amiably.
‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was harsh, abrasive, as if responding to a stinging insult.
‘You’re right. You didn’t tell me your father’s name. But you did say he was in the Revolutionary Guards. This human-rights friend of mine in London, he spends his whole life tracking people down, mostly prisoners of conscience, that kind of thing. I suppose he must have done some sort of cross-check on senior Revolutionary Guards officers who have a daughter called Tannaz. I honestly don’t know.’ Luke shrugged his shoulders in nonchalant dismissal. It was a weak explanation and he knew it, but he was clutching at straws. Tannaz was frowning at him, so there was still suspicion, but at least her jawline had relaxed a little.
‘So what about my father, then?’
‘I hate to say this, Tannaz, but he’s done some bad things, really bad things.’
Her reaction took him by surprise: she tossed her hair back and laughed sarcastically. ‘And you’re telling me this? You think we don’t know what he does, working for those people? You think we enjoy living this double life, Mama and me? Of course we don’t. I somehow doubt your friend in London can tell me anything I don’t already know about him.’
For a second Luke was tempted to show her, right there and then, to bring out the photographs he had cached on his phone. But he thought better of it. Not here, in this café – it was way too public. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘is there somewhere more private we can go? I mean, don’t get me wrong, this place Café Rameez is great but—’
‘You want somewhere more private?’ she repeated, cutting him off. ‘I think you had your chance for that when we were in the Bluebird and you walked out.’ She looked away, feigning boredom.
‘Yes, I did, and I’m sorry.’ God, was she ever going to get over that and forgive him?
Abruptly Tannaz got up. ‘Okay, come on. Follow me.’
The park was freezing, the colours all brown and grey, and there were few people about. They walked quickly, leaving behind them the rush and hum of the Tehran traffic, until they reached a bench beside a stone water fountain and she motioned for them to sit. ‘This had better be quick,’ she said, pulling her coat around her slender shoulders. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
‘I’m really sorry to be the one to do this to you, Tannaz.’ Luke already had the phone in his hand and was thumbing in the code to unlock his cache of photos. ‘But I’m not sure you know just what your father’s been doing to people.’ He selected the first photo on his phone and passed it to her. ‘Please, take a look at this.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he replied. ‘Neither did the family of the man in that photo when they came to collect the body. But I’m asking you, Tannaz, if you give a damn about humanity, about your own people, your country, you’ll want to know what your father and his people are doing to them.’ He paused but Tannaz was silent, her face giving nothing away. ‘Or is it all just about parties and fun for you?’
‘Fuck you! What do you know what I care about?’ she spat. It had struck a raw nerve.
‘Then go ahead and take a look,’ he challenged her.
Tannaz snatched the phone from him. She began to scroll through the cache of images and Luke studied her face as her expression changed. By the time she got to the last photograph, the one of her father standing proudly above a battered human corpse, shirtless and bleeding, she clapped her hand over her mouth as if to silence a scream. When she turned at last to look at Luke, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 40
Tehran
GEOFFREY CHAPLIN STRODE confidently into the VIP lounge of Imam Khomeini International Airport, wearing a fixed smile as the cameras flashed to left and right. It was, he knew, a momentous event. Weeks of preparation had gone into this, the first visit to Iran by a British Foreign Secretary since Philip Hammond had reopened the British Embassy in 2015, four years after it had been ransacked by a mob. And now a figure he recognized was waiting to receive him at the head of the Iranian government delegation.
Dark suit, white shirt buttoned to the top and no tie, Dr Erfan Askari, Iran’s newly appointed Foreign Minister, looked exactly like his photo in the file, prepared by the UK’s Joint Forces Intelligence Group. His words of welcome were spoken softly and without emotion. ‘Foreign Secretary, khosh amadid. Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran.’
They were upstairs in the VIP terminal beneath the giant twin portraits of the Ayatollah Khomeini and his successor as Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. Official photographers in checked shirts and baggy black trousers hovered nervously in the wings, snatching pictures as the two ministers shook hands, then darting around in search of better angles. Chaplin, flanked by his aides and his Principal Protection Officer, kept smiling as a female interpreter stepped forward, her hair only partly covered by a dark blue headscarf. She introduced herself as Zahra, then made the formal introductions as he moved down the line, shaking hands and bowing slightly to each official. He counted six in total, all men, all dressed in suits except the one at the end, who wore military service dress with a rack of medals and, incongruously, given that they were indoors, sunglasses with mirrored lenses.
He tried to recall the correct phrase he had been told to say in Farsi, something about being honoured to be there. ‘The Iranians will appreciate it,’ the FCO linguists had suggested back in London. ‘It’ll help to break the ice, that sort of thing.’ But it eluded him now. Heaven knew he’d had enough on his plate before setting off on this trip: Brexit, the Lebanese crisis, and then on the phone almost every day to his US counterpart, talking through the current tension in the Gulf. And Chaplin knew full well there were those in the White House who thought this ministerial visit was pointless, that it was well past time for talking with this regime in Tehran. Even the briefing from the famously cautious Foreign and Commonwealth Office had been explicit. He had read it again on the flight over and could almost remember it word for word:
[UK OFFICIAL]
It should be noted there are elements within the Iranian powerbase that will not welcome this government-to-government rapprochement with the United Kingdom. It must be assumed that hardcore members of the clergy, the judiciary and Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC) will view this visit as running contrary to the principles of the Islamic Revolution of 1979 and detrimental to the security of the Islamic Republic.
‘This way, please.’ The interpreter was inviting him to take a seat on a white leather sofa next to a small, lacquered wooden table. She was young, he noticed, not much more than twenty-five, and pretty, her manner demure yet observant. He bet she must have fought off a lot of competition to get this job.
Chaplin eased himself onto the sofa. There was just enough room for him, his private secretary and his two advisers while the Iranian officials took their places on chairs in front of them. He threw a discreet glance over his shoulder to check where his security people were. His three Close Protection Officers, from the Metropolitan Police Royal and Specialist Protection Command, remained standing, the flaps of their jackets hanging loosely over their hip holsters, which housed their Glock 19 semi-automatic pistols. My goodness, what a fuss there had been getting those into the country. The Iranians had refused permission at first, until it had looked as if the whole trip would be cancelled, but Whitehall had held its nerve and the host country had relented. ‘A special exception’ was made, for the sake of goodwill.
He looked up as a pair of waiters detached themselves from the wall behind a counter and hovered over them, bearing a tray of glasses filled with a reddish-brown liquid. He was thirsty, he realized, but not that thirsty. In fact the Foreign Secretary didn’t like the look of that liquid one bit. There were cubes of ice bobbing around in there – he had been warned about that – and a whole lot of tiny orange pips floating on top.
‘Khakshir,’ explained Zahra. ‘It is our welcome drink. Made with turmeric and saffron. It reduces fever. And also tension,’ she added, with just a hint of irony. For a few seconds they sat in awkward silence, the two delegations facing each other as they sipped their drinks. Chaplin raised his glass in a mock toast, touched the liquid to his lips and swallowed, but without imbibing. It was a habit he had acquired on the job after attending endless diplomatic cocktail parties.
The Iranian Foreign Minister was addressing him in Farsi. Waiting patiently for the translation, he noticed that the man seemed to be moving his lips while keeping the rest of his face perfectly still. Yet there was a twinkle in those eyes, behind the spectacles, and a clear intelligence. Dr Askari’s CV, he remembered, had mentioned a master’s in philosophy.
‘His Excellency the Minister thanks you for your visit,’ said Zahra, translating once he had finished. ‘He hopes that you will forgive the humble quality of this arrivals hall, which pales into insignificance compared to what you have in Europe.’
What? thought Chaplain. This place is palatial. One of his advisers leaned over to him and explained in hushed tones: ‘It’s called ta’arof,’ he said. ‘It’s Iranian modesty, a part of their culture. People tell you things they think you want to hear.’
‘I see.’ Chaplin looked across at the Foreign Minister. Did this mean he wasn’t to take this man at his word? How did business ever get done in this country if that were the case? It was all very confusing but now Zahra was translating again. ‘The Minister hopes that past misunderstandings can be put behind us …’ she said ‘… and that we can look forward to a long and mutually beneficial partnership in the Persian Gulf region.’
Persian Gulf? ‘Arabian Gulf’ was the term preferred by the FCO and most of Whitehall, a phrase he knew the Iranians detested since they always considered the Gulf to be a Persian lake. He ignored it and nodded in polite appreciation, raising his glass once more, its murky contents still undrunk. He was about to deliver a formal reply but it seemed his Iranian opposite number still had more to say.
‘His Excellency expects that you would like to rest now after your long journey,’ Zahra translated. She was pressing the palms of her hands together as she spoke, as if in supplication. ‘Our cars are waiting outside to take you, when you are ready, to your embassy compound on Ferdowsi Avenue. Tonight there is the banquet at Sa’adabad Palace and tomorrow morning the Minister looks forward to receiving you and your delegation in his office at the Foreign Ministry. Also …’ the interpreter hardly drew breath as she said this ‘… His Excellency very much looks forward to accompanying you after that to the great city of Isfahan in the afternoon. We believe that this has already been recorded in your programme.’
It definitely had not. This was completely unexpected and Chaplin found it hard to hide his surprise. He twisted round on the sofa to make eye contact with Sara Vallance, his special adviser – or SPAD, in Whitehall parlance. He raised a questioning eyebrow. Her shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly in response, a polite shrug but her expression was blank. No, an excursion to Isfahan had not been on anyone’s programme. Craig Dunne, the team’s Principal Protection Officer, had been standing just behind the Foreign Secretary and bent down to whisper in his minister’s ear. Dunne, Chaplin knew, had more than seventeen years’ experience in the Met, the last eight of which had been in close protection of VIPs. Caution obviously ran in the man’s veins. As succinctly as he could, he pointed out the risks inherent in an unforeseen change of plan. They’d have no time to carry out a proper recce of the routes or hotels, and that was just the beginning. Chaplin understood there were bound to be variables involved, but the clock was ticking and the invitation was still hanging in the air. He was damned if he was going to mess up the whole trip before it had started by giving offence.
‘Please tell the Minister,’ he said to Zahra, with elaborate courtesy, ‘that we would be honoured to join him in Isfahan tomorrow.’
They filed out, making small-talk as they passed the sentries on the door, and went down in the chrome-plated lift to the waiting convoy of black government Mercedes, escorted at both ends by security minivans with sliding doors and balaclavaed marksmen crouched inside. ‘For your safety,’ Zahra explained to Geoffrey Chaplin. ‘But you have nothing to fear here. Everywhere in Iran is quite safe.’
Craig Dunne took his place in the front passenger seat of Chaplin’s limousine, his hand resting lightly on the holster beneath his jacket. The Foreign Secretary settled himself into the seat behind, Sara Vallance beside him, the thick leather armrest between them. He noticed that the driver had put all the windows up and locked the doors. But even sealed into their comfortable car they heard it. A rising cacophony of angry chants that grew louder as the cavalcade moved on. When the convoy swung left onto the Tehran–Qom Highway the demonstrators came clearly into view. Crowds of young men were pressing against the barricades, confronting the line of baton-carrying, green-uniformed policemen who faced them. The chanting had become one continuous repetitive roar.
‘Marg bar Ingilistan! Marg bar Ingilistan!’
‘What are they shouting?’ Chaplin asked the driver, as their car edged past. When he didn’t answer, Chaplin tried again.
‘It is not important,’ the driver replied, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. ‘These are not educated people. Please, take no notice.’
Chaplin could see that he was embarrassed but he persisted. ‘But what are they saying?’ he said, peering forward in his seat. ‘They do seem very worked up.’
‘They are saying …’ the driver hesitated, then finished his sentence in a rush ‘… they are saying,“Death to England.”’
‘Oh. I see.’ The Foreign Secretary peered anxiously through the car’s windows. He had never seen such a parade of hostile, contemptuous faces – it certainly put Prime Minister’s Questions into the shade. There were men with headbands tied round their foreheads with slogans in Farsi, shaking their fists at the convoy. Briefly, some of them managed to break through the barrier to slam their hands on the roof of the car, making a terrible din. Chaplin looked up into the face of one, a heavily built man with a vivid scar running down his left cheek, his eyes shining with what seemed almost demonic fury. A second later he vanished from view, hauled back into line by the police as the convoy swept on, flanked by the police motorcycle outriders, heading north into the vast, sprawling, traffic-choked metropolis that was the Iranian capital.
