Warren snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve got it! I nearly had it when Follet pointed them out, but I couldn’t pin it down. This is a qanat.’
‘A who-what?’
‘A qanat—an underground canal.’ He turned and looked back at the hills. ‘It taps an aquifer in the slopes over there, and leads water to the village. I was studying Iran before we came out here and I read about them. Iran is pretty well honeycombed with the things—there’s a total of nearly two hundred thousand miles of qanats in the country.’
Tozier scratched his head. ‘Why can’t they build their canals on the surface like other people?’
‘It’s for water supply,’ said Warren. ‘They lose less by evaporation if the channel is underground. It’s a very old system—the Persians have been building these things for the last three thousand years.’ He grinned with relief. ‘These aren’t bomb craters—they’re ventilation shafts; they have to have them so the workmen aren’t asphyxiated when they’re doing repairs.’
‘Problem solved,’ said Tozier. ‘Let’s go.’
They set off again and drove back to the road and then towards the settlement. The buildings were of the common sort they had seen elsewhere—walls made of rammed earth, flat roofs, and all of them single storey which would conveniently make a search easier. As they got nearer they saw goats grazing under the watchful eye of a small boy who waved as they passed, and there were scrawny chickens which scattered as they approached the courtyard of the largest building.
Tozier drew up inside. ‘If you want to tell me anything let it wait until we’re alone. These people might have more English than they’ll admit to. But I must say everything looks peaceful.’
It did not seem so to Warren because a crowd of small boys rushed forward towards the unexpected visitors and were capering about in the dust, their shrill voices raised high. The women who had been about were vanishing like wraiths, drawing their shawls about their faces and hurrying out of sight through a dozen doors. He said, ‘There are a hell of a lot of rooms to look into; and if Fahrwaz has a harem that will make things difficult.’
They descended to the ground and the small boys engulfed them. Tozier raised his voice. ‘Better lock up or we’ll be missing a lot of gear.’
Another voice was raised in harsh command and the boys scattered, running across the courtyard as though the devil were at their heels. A tall man stepped forward, richly dressed and straight-backed, though elderly. The haft of the curved knife in his sash glinted with jewels, a stone shone in his turban and others from the rings on his fingers. His face was thin and austere, and his beard was grey.
He turned and spoke in a low voice to his companion, who said—astonishingly in English—‘Sheikh Fahrwaz welcomes you. His house is yours.’ He paused, then added sardonically, ‘I wouldn’t take that too literally—it’s just a figure of speech.’
Warren recovered enough to say, Thank you. My name is Nicholas Warren and this is Andrew Tozier. We’re looking for locations to make a film.’ He indicated the inscription on the side of the Land-Rover. ‘We work for Regent Films of London.’
‘You’re off the beaten track. I’m Ahmed—this is my father.’ He spoke to the old man and the Sheikh nodded his head gravely and muttered a reply. Ahmed said, ‘You’re still welcome, although my father cannot really approve. He is a good Moslem and the making of images is against the Law.’ He smiled slightly. ‘For myself, I couldn’t give a damn. You need not lock your truck—nothing will be stolen.’
Warren smiled. ‘It’s…er…unexpected to find English spoken in this remote place.’
Ahmed smiled a little mockingly. ‘Do you think I should have a big sign put up there on the Djebel Ramadi—“English Spoken Here”?’ He gestured. ‘My father wishes you to enter his house.’
Thank you,’ said Warren. ‘Thank you very much.’ He glanced at Tozier. ‘Come on, Andy.’
‘The room into which they were led was large. Sheepskin rugs were scattered on the floor and the walls were hidden behind tapestries. Several low settees surrounded a central open space which was covered by a fine Persian carpet, and coffee was already being brought in on brass trays.
‘Be seated,’ said Ahmed, and sank gracefully on to one of the settees. Warren tactfully waited until Sheikh Fahrwaz had settled himself and then sat down, doing his best to imitate the apparently awkward posture of Ahmed, which Ahmed did not seem to find awkward at all. Tozier followed suit and Warren could hear his joints crack.
‘We have had European visits before,’ said Ahmed. ‘My father is one of the old school, and I usually instruct visitors in our customs. It pleases my father when they do what is right in his eyes, and does no harm to anyone.’ He smiled engagingly. ‘Afterwards we will go to my quarters and drink a lot of whisky.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Warren. ‘Isn’t it, Andy?’
‘I could do with a stiff drink,’ admitted Tozier.
Ahmed spoke to his father, then said, ‘We will now have coffee. It is a little ceremonious, but it will not take long. My father wishes to know how long you have been in Kurdistan.’
‘Not very long,’ said Warren. ‘We came in from Gilan two days ago.’
Ahmed translated this to his father, then said, ‘You take the brass coffee cup in your right hand. The coffee is very hot and already sweetened—perhaps too sweet for your palate. Is this your first time in Kurdistan?’
Warren thought it better to tell the truth; unnecessary lies could be dangerous. He picked up the cup and cradled it in the palm of his hand. ‘We were here a few weeks ago,’ he said. ‘We didn’t find just what we wanted so we went back to Tehran to rest for a while.’
‘No,’ said Ahmed. ‘Kurdistan is not a restful place.’ He turned to Sheikh Fahrwaz and ripped off a couple of sentences very fast, then he said, ‘You drink the coffee all at once, then you put the cup on the tray—upturned. It will make a sticky mess, but that doesn’t matter. What is this film you are going to make, Mr Warren?’
‘I’m not going to make the film,’ said Warren. ‘I’m just an advance man scouting locations as called for by the script.’ He drank the coffee; it was hot and sickly sweet, and the cup was half full of grounds which he pushed back with his tongue. He brought the cup down and turned it over on the tray. Old Sheikh Fahrwaz smiled benevolently.
‘I see,’ said Ahmed. ‘Just the other two cups and then we are finished. You make my father very happy when you understand our Kurdish hospitality.’ He drank his coffee apparently with enjoyment. ‘Are you the…er…the man in charge, Mr Warren?’
‘Yes.’ Warren followed Ahmed’s example and picked up the second cup. ‘Andy—Mr Tozier, here—is more of a technician. He concerns himself with camera angles and things like that.’ Warren did not know how a unit like this was supposed to operate, and he hoped he was not dropping too many clangers.
‘And there are just the two of you?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Warren blandly. ‘Four of us in two vehicles. The others had a puncture and stopped to change the wheel.’
‘Ah, then we must extend our hospitality to your friends. Night is falling.’
Warren shook his head. ‘It is not necessary. They are fully equipped for camping.’
‘As you say,’ said Ahmed, and turned to his father.
They got through the third and last cup of the coffee ceremony and Sheikh Fahrwaz arose and uttered a sonorous and lengthy speech. Ahmed said briefly, ‘My father extends to you the use of his house for the night.’
Warren gave Tozier a sideways glance and Tozier nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘We’ll be delighted. I’d just like to get some things from the Land-Rover—shaving kit and so forth.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Tozier promptly.
‘Why, Mr Tozier,’ said Ahmed chidingly, ‘I was beginning to think the cat had got your tongue.’ He brought out the English idiom triumphantly.
Tozier grinned. ‘I leave the talking to the boss.’
‘Of course yo
u may leave,’ said Ahmed. ‘But after my father—that is the custom.’
Sheikh Fahrwaz bowed and disappeared through a doorway at the back of the room, and Tozier went out into the courtyard. He reached into the cab, unhooked the microphone and tossed it carelessly into the back. Luckily it had a long lead. He climbed into the back and, as he was unstrapping his case, he pressed the switch, and said in a low voice, ‘Calling Regent Two; calling Regent Two. Come in—come in. Over.’
Follet’s voice from the speaker in front was a bit too loud for comfort. ‘Johnny here. Are you okay? Over.’
‘We’ll be all right if you speak more softly. We’re staying the night. Keep listening in case anything happens. Over.’
‘I can’t keep the set alive all night without moving,’ said Follet more quietly. ‘It’ll run the batteries flat. Over.’
‘Then keep a listening watch every hour on the hour for ten minutes. Got that? Over.’
‘Got it. Good luck. Out.’
Tozier unpacked everything he and Warren would need and then stowed the microphone away out of sight. When he went back into the house he found Warren and Ahmed chatting. ‘Ahmed has just been telling me how he came by his English,’ said Warren. ‘He lived in England for seventeen years.’
‘Oh,’ said Tozier. ‘That’s interesting. How come?’
Ahmed waved gracefully. ‘Let us talk about it over a drink. Come, my friends.’ He led them from the room, across the courtyard and into what were unmistakably his own quarters, which were furnished completely in European style. He opened a cabinet. ‘Whisky?’
‘Thank you,’ said Warren civilly. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
Ahmed poured the drinks and Warren noted he drank Chivas Regal. ‘My father does not approve, but I do as I wish in my own rooms,’ He handed a glass to Warren. The Prophet is against alcohol, but would God allow us to make it if we weren’t to use it?’ He held up the bottle and said jocularly, ‘And if I sin, at least my sins are of the finest quality. Mr Tozier, your drink.’
‘Thank you.’
Ahmed poured himself a healthy slug. ‘Besides, the very word alcohol is Arabic. I must say I acquired a taste for Scotch whisky in England. But sit down, gentlemen; I think you will find those seats more comfortable than those of my father.’
‘How did you get to England?’ asked Warren curiously.
‘Ah, what a long story,’ said Ahmed. ‘Do you know much of our Kurdish politics?’
‘Nothing at all. What about you, Andy?’
‘I’ve heard of the Kurdish problem, but I’ve never known what it is,’ said Tozier.
Ahmed laughed. ‘We Kurds prefer to call it the Iranian problem, or the Iraqi problem, or the Turkish problem; we don’t look upon ourselves as a problem, but that is quite natural.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘During the war Iran was occupied, as you know, by you British in the south and by the Russians in the north. When the occupying forces left the Russians played one of their favourite tricks by leaving a Fifth Column behind. For this purpose they tried to use the Kurds. The Mehabad Kurdish Republic was set up, backed by the Russians, but it was short-lived and collapsed as soon as the new Iranian government moved an army to the north.’
He waved his glass. ‘That was in 1946 when I was five years old. My father was involved, and with Mullah Mustapha Barzani, he took refuge in Russia.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But me he sent to England where I lived until 1963. My father is a wise man; he did not want all his family in Russia. You English have a saying about too many eggs in one basket—so I was sent to England, and my elder brother to France. That explains it, does it not?’
‘This Mullah what’s-his-name—who is he?’ asked Tozier.
‘Mullah Mustapha Barzani? He is one of our Kurdish leaders. He is still alive.’ Ahmed chuckled gleefully. ‘He is in Iraq with an army of twenty thousand men. He causes the Iraqis a lot of trouble. Me, I am also a Barzani; that is, a member of the Barzani tribe of which the Mullah is the leader. And so, of course, is my father.’
‘How did your father get back into Iran?’ asked Warren.
‘Oh, there was a sort of amnesty,’ said Ahmed, ‘and he was allowed to return. Of course he is watched; but all Kurds are watched, more or less. My father is now old and no longer inclined to politics. As for me—I never was. Life in England conditions one to be…gentle!’
Warren looked at the knife in Ahmed’s sash and wondered if it was entirely ceremonial. Tozier said, ‘Where do the Iraqis and Turks come into all this?’
‘Ah, the Kurdish problem. That is best explained with a map—I think I have one somewhere.’ Ahmed went to a bookcase and pulled out what was obviously an old school atlas. He flicked the pages, and said, ‘Here we are—the Middle East. In the north—Turkey; in the east—Iran; to the west—Iraq.’ His finger swept in a line from the mountains of eastern Turkey south along the Iraqi-Iranian border.
‘This is the homeland of the Kurds. We are a divided people spread over three countries, and in each country we are a minority—an oppressed minority, if you like. We are divided and ruled by the Persians, the Iraqis and the Turks. You must admit this could lead to trouble.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Tozier. ‘And it’s happening in Iraq, you say.’
‘Barzani is fighting for Kurdish autonomy in Iraq,’ said Ahmed. ‘He is a clever man and a good soldier; he has fought the Iraqis to a standstill. With all their war planes, tanks and heavy artillery the Iraqis have not been able to subdue him—so now President Bakr is reduced to negotiation.’ He smiled. ‘A triumph for Barzani.’
He closed the atlas. ‘But enough of politics. Have more whisky and tell me of England.’
II
Warren and Tozier left rather late the next morning. Ahmed was prodigal in his hospitality, but they did not see Sheikh Fahrwaz again. Ahmed kept them up late at night talking about his life in England and quizzing them about current English affairs. In the morning, after breakfast, he said, ‘Would you like to see the farm? It’s typically Kurdish, you know’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Perhaps I will yet see my father’s farm on the screen.’
The tour of the farm was exhaustive—and Ahmed was exhausting. He showed them everything and kept up a running commentary all the time. It was after eleven when they were ready to leave. ‘And where do you go now?’ he asked.
Tozier looked at his watch. ‘Johnny hasn’t turned up yet; maybe he’s in trouble. I think we ought to go back and find him. What do you say, Nick?’
‘It might be as well,’ said Warren. ‘But I bet he’s gone back to have another look at that encampment he was so enthusiastic about. I think we’d better chase him up.’ He smiled at Ahmed. ‘Thank you for your hospitality—it’s been most kind.’
‘Typically Kurdish,’ said Ahmed cheerfully.
They exchanged a few more polite formalities and then departed with a wave from Ahmed and his ‘God speed you,’ in their ears. As they bumped back along the road to the pass Warren said, ‘What did you think of that?’
Tozier snorted. ‘Too bloody good to be true, if you ask me. He was altogether too accommodating.’
‘He certainly took a lot of trouble over us,’ said Warren. ‘ “Typical Kurdish hospitality”,’ he quoted.
‘Hospitality, my backside,’ said Tozier violently. ‘Did you notice he took us into every building—into every room? It was as though he was deliberately demonstrating he had nothing to hide. How did you sleep?’
‘Like the dead,’ said Warren. ‘He was very liberal with his Chivas Regal. I felt woozy when I turned in.’
‘So was I,’ said Tozier. ‘I usually have a better head for Scotch than that.’ He paused. ‘Maybe we were doped with some of that morphine we’re looking for. Is that possible?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Warren. ‘I must admit I felt a bit dreary when I woke up this morning.’
‘I have a vague idea there was quite a bit of movement during the night,’ said Tozier. ‘I seem to remember a lot of coming and going
with camels. The trouble is I don’t know if it really happened or if it was a dream.’
They came to the top of the pass and Warren looked back. The settlement looked peaceful and innocent—a pleasant pastoral scene. Typically Kurdish, he thought sardonically. And yet Sheikh Fahrwaz was the consignee for those damned chemicals. He said, ‘We saw everything there was to be seen down there, therefore there was nothing to hide. Unless…’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless it’s so well hidden that Ahmed knew we wouldn’t spot it.’
‘How much room would Speering need for his laboratory, or whatever it is?’
Warren considered the ridiculous amount of chemicals that Javid Raqi had come up with. ‘Anything from two hundred square feet to two thousand.’
‘Then it’s not there,’ said Tozier flatly. ‘We’d have seen it.’
‘Would we?’ said Warren thoughtfully. ‘You said you’ve searched villages for arms caches. Where did you usually find them?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Tozier, thumping the wheel violently. ‘Underground, of course. But just in bits and pieces—a few here and there. There was never any big-scale construction like you’d need here.’
‘It wouldn’t be too difficult. The ground in the valley bottom isn’t rocky—it’s soil over red clay; quite soft, really.’
‘So you think we ought to go back and have a look. That’s going to be difficult, as well as being dicey.’
‘We’ll talk about it with the others. There’s Ben now.’
Bryan waved them off the road into a little side valley which was hardly more than a ravine, and jumped on to the running-board as they passed. After two hundred yards the ravine bent at right-angles and they saw the other vehicle parked, with Follet sitting on the ground in front of it. He looked up as they stopped. ‘Any trouble?’
‘Not yet,’ said Tozier briefly. He joined Follet. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘A photograph of the valley. I took a dozen with the Polaroid camera.’
The Spoilers / Juggernaut Page 16