“You’ve gotten close to Nate, it seems.” There was a question in Khattak’s voice.
Rachel’s face burned. She stumbled into an answer.
“He’s not a bad assistant. When you’re not around, I mean.”
Khattak smiled to himself.
“High praise indeed.” He glanced over her shoulder. “I’d better go. Your friend Simon is looking for you. Have coffee with him, it should serve to divert his suspicions.” His smile became teasing. “You could be misinterpreting things, Rachel.”
“How, sir?” His jaunty tone made her suspicious.
“He may be another of your admirers.”
He ducked away before Rachel could respond.
* * *
She was unsettled when Simon helped himself to Khattak’s seat and ordered tea for them without asking. He made up for it a minute later, when he inquired with a sympathetic look, “You don’t mind, I hope?”
To Rachel, tea was the anemic younger brother of a sturdy double-double. Since she hadn’t grown fond of Nescafé, she supposed it was the safer choice.
“Did you like Shiraz?” she asked.
“I think the question is whether you did. You went missing after the Nasir al-Mulk.”
“That’s not true,” Rachel protested.
“No? I challenge you to name a single other stop we made with our indefatigable hostess.”
Rachel grinned at this description. Samira’s catalog of wonders was delivered in a monotone that raced to a finish before she lost the attention of her clients.
“Safavids, Sassanids, I can’t keep them straight.”
Their waiter brought tea and served it with some ceremony, with rosewater-flavored Turkish Delight. Rachel munched the confection with enthusiasm. The healthy Persian breakfast of bread, cheese, quince jam, and walnuts wasn’t making a dent in her appetite.
Simon observed her.
“It’s a hell of a lot of money to pay if you’re not interested in Iran’s history.”
Rachel took another piece of Turkish Delight.
“There’s only so much I can absorb, and I don’t like being minded.”
Simon leaned back in his seat.
“You intrigue me,” he said. “I could have sworn the Pink Mosque meant something to you. As for the rest—” He waved a hand dismissively. “Who’s the man you’ve been talking to, a secret admirer?”
This was such a strange inversion of what Khattak had suggested about Simon that Rachel had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing.
“Just someone I met. He has some good recommendations about what to see.”
“Such as?”
Rachel reeled off the name of the restaurant on the harbor.
“He says we should take a boat out on the Caspian.”
Simon’s response was dry. “And conveniently that’s been arranged on our itinerary.” He finished his tea and rose. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, Rachel, but if you need a co-conspirator, count me in.”
Rachel stared at him without blinking. She hadn’t expected him to figure her out so quickly. And she wondered why, when he’d paid just as much money for the tour as she had, he was more interested in her activities than in the tour’s itinerary. Or why he would volunteer to help her. She was a Canadian police officer in Iran. She’d have to be a little more discreet, and far less laissez-faire about her movements.
When she was sure he’d gone, she finished off the plate of Turkish Delight. Her appetite undaunted, she ordered another.
* * *
Rachel’s romantic impressions of the Caspian Sea were doomed to disappointment as soon as the local bus transferred them from the city of Rasht, the capital of Gilan Province, to the boardwalk of Anzali Harbor.
The first thing she absorbed was the lush greenery of the province, the humidity in the air that allowed for the fertile growth of rice paddies and tea crops. As they reached the harbor, she expected to see blue-green waters and sandy beaches covered in shells. Instead, their group found itself on a crowded boardwalk that curved around the sea’s southern bed.
The sea was doused in the haze of pollution, with mountains as a chalky backdrop, and the orange winches of cargo ships in the foreground. The hulks of container ships loomed over smaller fishing vessels, the air tasted moist and salty, though the Volga and Ural Rivers fed the Caspian Sea fresh water from the north. The beaches were saltine gray.
In the middle distance, oil and natural gas platforms decked the surface of the water, partnered with drilling rigs farther out. A roll of white surf unraveled at the shore, gulls screaming as they dived among the pebbles. By any measure, the Caspian Sea was crowded.
Rachel paid attention to Samira’s description of the sea’s ecology. The world’s largest enclosed body of water, the Caspian was bordered by five countries. It was heavily over-fished and over-drilled, bringing untold oil riches to Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia, while its most prized export, the Caspian sturgeon, was at the point of extinction.
Families strolled along the boardwalk, their faces differing from those Rachel had observed in Tehran and Shiraz. Azeris, Russians, Turkmens, Kazakhs—a concert of languages and customs. Samira droned on about the Gilani dialect and the garlic-infused Gilani diet. Her mind half on lunch, Rachel stared down the boardwalk and despaired. How would she have time to check each boathouse along the way? What hope did she have of finding a man named Barid Rud in the course of a single day, especially with Simon Graves at her heels?
As they strolled along the boardwalk, Rachel darted off into the entrances of pilothouses and fishing cottages, using the same phrase Khattak had taught her in Farsi.
I’m looking for a man named Barid Rud.
A few of the fishermen laughed at her statement, but no one could answer, even when she showed them the photograph. She re-joined her group as quickly as she could to avert Samira’s suspicion, though she felt the silent weight of Simon Graves’s reproof.
Eventually, Samira led them to a restaurant on the harbor whose name was Rain, a much-prized commodity of the Caspian region, not quite as valued by foreign tourists.
“You will now have an hour to wander on your own.” She looked pointedly at Rachel. “Make use of your free time, so you can benefit from this tour. We’ll meet at the restaurant for lunch, where I promise you, not all the caviar has been exported.”
Rachel had never tasted caviar. She made a mental note not to miss it. And to deflect Samira’s attention, she asked several questions about the different varieties of caviar. She attached herself so persistently, that it was Samira who finally moved away, latching on to the Danes.
As Samira turned away, Simon caught Rachel by the arm. He led her a little away from the others.
“Let me help,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re doing, I doubt an hour will be enough time. And don’t tell me you’re not doing anything.”
Rachel’s skin went cold. From her last case to this one, it was becoming clear that her undercover skills needed work. She made a mental note to apply for additional training.
Summoning a careless smile, she said, “I have no idea what you mean.”
“No? You’ve been wandering into boathouses just because you like the smell?”
Rachel cast a hurried glance over at Samira, still chatting with the Danes.
“I like to get an authentic sense of the places I visit. So I interact with the locals.”
Simon shook his head. “Do you speak any Persian, Rachel?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I do. In fact, that’s my job, my life’s work. I’m a professor of Indo-European languages. My passion for Iran’s history and culture is quite sincere. But I’m beginning to wonder about yours.”
Rachel scowled. She’d had enough of Simon’s interference.
“I might not be a professor, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in Iran.”
He looked over at Samira. He placed a hand on Rachel’s wrist, giving the impression of intimacy.
“Don’t mind
this,” he said. “She’s watching us.” He examined Rachel’s face, and when she remained determinedly silent, he sighed. “This isn’t the safest country for tourists who walk away from their minders. Whatever it is you’re doing, your activities endanger us all.”
Rachel experienced an immediate pang of conscience. She hadn’t considered that, carried away by the urgency of her search. But she attempted another deflection, thinking the less Simon knew, the better he would fare.
“I was just exploring,” she muttered.
Exasperated, Simon dropped his hand.
“Really? I followed you to a boathouse, to give you a little cover from Samira. You were asking for a man named Barid Rud.”
Rachel folded her arms across her chest. She squinted up at the sun.
“So?”
“Rachel, someone’s been having you on. Barid Rud isn’t a name. It’s a pseudonym of some kind. Barid means courier or messenger. In this context, it might translate to ‘messenger of the sea.’ Now do you see why you might need a little help?”
Rachel bit her lip. This was a setback neither she nor Khattak could have anticipated. She looked into Simon Graves’s sharp gray eyes, and realized she couldn’t involve him.
“I didn’t know that,” she said slowly. “And I appreciate you telling me that, but there’s no need for you to get yourself embroiled in this. If you can keep Samira off my case, I’ll consider that a favor.”
They stared at each other, smiling for Samira’s benefit. Simon dug his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. It was zipped up to his throat, protecting him from the wind. Rachel tasted sea salt on her lips.
“Are you certain?”
Rachel was tempted to tell him more, but her common sense told her that even if she could trust Simon, he was right about one thing—her off-book activities might endanger the whole group.
“Thanks,” she said. “That’s really all the help I need.”
He didn’t seem satisfied, but he nodded and let her go.
* * *
Rachel’s search proved futile. By the time the group came together for lunch, she’d walked less than a mile along the boardwalk. She collapsed onto a bench at their table, taking care to avoid Samira.
The Danes and Roger, the other Briton, hadn’t wandered far at all. Roger showed them photographs he’d snapped of the harbor. Rows of orange cargo cranes stood sentinel against the sky. Their horns combined with the cries of gulls, a background music to their hastily conjured lunch. The restaurant’s appearance failed to match the tour’s promise of five-star luxury. The benches were solid wood, the tables covered with plastic, the stench of fish heavy in the embroidered wall-hangings. Their server was a woman with rough, raw hands and inquisitive eyes in a richly seamed face. She broke into a torrent of speech, gesticulating back and forth with Samira.
Moments later, the mystery of the restaurant’s popularity was solved. Caviar was served with a foil of bread and garlic crackers. Its peaty taste cleaved to Rachel’s tongue.
“Ambrosial,” Simon murmured beside her. He seemed to have forgotten her earlier rebuff. Either that or the renewal of his interest was meant to protect them both.
He applauded softly as the caviar was followed by a garlic-and-turmeric feast: mirza ghasemi, a blend of garlic, egg, and mashed eggplant; meatballs in walnut-and-pomegranate sauce called fesenjan; shami Rashti lentil-and-meat patties, garlic-flavored broad beans, and fried garlic leaves with eggs. The meal was served with heaps of rice, grilled tomatoes, Persian cucumbers, and a salty yogurt beverage known as doogh. Rachel helped herself to everything, scooping it onto bread fresh from a tandoor.
“Now what?” Simon asked when they’d finished. “Tell me you’re staying on the tour. Samira’s taking us on a boat tour of the marsh.”
Rachel shook her head. “I need to get back to the boardwalk.”
Simon frowned in warning.
“Samira is already suspicious of you. You need to come up with a more sensible plan.”
Rachel pondered this. Could she risk a few hours on the marsh? Khattak wouldn’t be able to reach her, if he needed help. Seeing the worry on her face, Simon made a decision.
“Play along,” he said into her ear, moving much closer than Rachel felt comfortable with. A second later, he flung an arm over Rachel’s shoulders, pulling her closer still.
He spoke to Samira fluently in Farsi. With a stiff smile pasted on her face, Rachel tried to interpret Samira’s response. Simon tipped his head at Rachel, squeezing her shoulder. Samira said something in reply, and he nodded.
She didn’t seem entirely pleased, but there was a sardonic glint of acceptance in her eyes.
Simon brushed Rachel’s hair over one shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she muttered.
Simon murmured back, a smile dancing in his eyes.
“These kinds of public displays are not tolerated in Iran. But Samira seems quite jaded when it comes to tourists—she thinks them capable of anything.”
“So?”
Simon squeezed her shoulder again. “I’ve told her we want to be alone—to take a lovers’ stroll.”
Rachel’s smile froze on her face.
“You can’t come with me.”
“Well,” he said, nodding at the view of the Caspian Sea. “It’s a choice between the devil or the deep blue sea. She won’t let you leave without me.”
Simon had outmaneuvered her. She didn’t know what he’d said to Samira, but Rachel was effectively trapped.
* * *
When Samira had left with the others after dithering for a moment or two, Rachel turned on Simon.
“I need you to let me get on with my work.”
Simon coolly raised one brow. “It’s because of me you were able to stay behind. Haven’t I earned the right to know what on earth you’re doing?”
Rachel fixed him with a glare.
“I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know anything about me.”
“Apart from the fact that you have a rather hearty appetite? I think I’m beginning to suspect.” And at Rachel’s sudden look of fear, he added, “Look. I’ve told you, you can trust me. The British Commonwealth and so on. The Queen of England is your head of state.”
Whistling “Rule, Britannia!” under his breath, he withdrew a copy of his passport from his satchel, together with letters of introduction to Iranian universities. They listed his credentials in detail. Reading them over, Rachel hesitated.
“You could help me if you don’t mind working in the dark.”
“Tell me a little bit, at least.”
After another moment’s quick debate with herself, Rachel removed her police ID from the inside pocket of her shirt. She presented it to Simon for a glimpse, before securing it back in her hidden pocket.
“You must have heard of the murder of Zahra Sobhani?” Simon’s face went still. “I can’t say much, but that’s why I’ve come. I need to find Barid Rud.”
It didn’t take him long to make up his mind.
“All right,” he said. “Let me do what I can to help.”
* * *
When Rachel had parted from Simon to re-group with Khattak at the end of the day, neither of them had anything to report. He told her most of the boathouses he’d visited displayed a portrait of the fishing vessel’s captain above the register. None of the portraits were of Barid Rud.
Rachel shared with him Simon’s deconstruction of Barid Rud’s name. Khattak seemed disheartened by the information.
“I didn’t think of that,” he said. “We’re chasing shadows.”
“Should we keep at it?”
Khattak pulled out his phone. “I’ll ask Touka if the name means anything to her. And I’ll ask Ali and Omid to search as well. Between them, they may be able to find something that narrows down our search. You should get back to your group. If you can slip away before your bus trip back to Tehran, we can catch up here in the morning.” He showed her a point on a map of the harbor. “Thi
s is the last section I need to check on my end. It’s mostly international cargo ships headed to ports in Kazakhstan or Russia.”
They agreed on the time and place for their meeting and parted ways.
Rounding the corner, Rachel bumped into Samira.
“I was worried about you,” she said. “Where have you been, Miss Getty? And why did you come on this tour? You don’t seem particularly interested in the sights.”
Completely unprepared for the encounter, Rachel’s hand strayed to the neck of her shirt. As they fumbled over one of her shirt buttons, she had a sudden flash of inspiration. She shook her hair in front of her face, letting her loosely tied scarf fall away. The movement gave her a chance to undo two of her buttons. Her fingers pulled her neckline lower. She had no need to manufacture a blush.
“This tour has a reputation for discretion—that’s why I chose your agency. I was hoping to make some friends here—friends like Simon.”
Rachel had never tried to portray herself as a woman on the make before. She hoped she was halfway convincing. Why hadn’t she worn lipstick?
Samira flashed her a look of contempt. Her gaze strayed to Rachel’s neckline.
“Button your shirt,” she snapped. “Don’t insult our customs.”
Rachel’s embarrassment was very real.
“Yes, of course,” she said. And then laying the groundwork for her next misadventure: “I promise to be more discreet.” She made her voice sound inquiring. “I’ve heard Iranian men enjoy meeting women from other countries, is that true? Because if it is, I wouldn’t mind a little extra time on my own.”
With a snort of derision, Samira walked away.
But she didn’t refuse.
56
Interrogation
“If you confess, you’ll go free.” They’re laughing, slapping each other on the back. My rapist isn’t there. He’s been re-located to the general wing where the criminals are held. I don’t have to see him or smell him. This is Nasreen’s doing, Nasreen has gotten me out. “What do you want me to say?” I ask. They’ve written it down, a scripted confession, a video camera on the desk. There’s a bowl of pistachios on the table, they let me eat some, I lick the salt from my fingers. “What happens after I read this?” Hogsbreath nods at the door. “Joojeh will take you to the yard. Your family is waiting at the gates. But I warn you—if you recant, you’ll be back here in no time, understand?” I assure them I won’t recant. Slowly, haltingly, I read the confession aloud. I admit to being a Turkish conspirator, a Kurdish spy, an agent of ISIS, a member of the peshmerga, and other contradictory identities. I repent my collusion against the regime. I confess to disgusting forms of sexual deviance. I thank the warden for the nobility of his treatment, I promise to live a life of seclusion, and to never consider politics again. I condemn Mousavi and Karroubi as deceivers and false prophets, I condemn Zahra as a spy, my voice doesn’t break, though the rest of me does.
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