Zac helped the child up. The boy stood tentatively on one leg, struggling to maintain his balance. He tried to walk, but the slightest weight on his injured ankle caused him to cry out and grab Zac’s arm for help.
What on earth is this kid doing out here alone?
He couldn’t have wandered far without someone noticing. Zac scanned the area again but there was no one in sight. He knew firsthand how cold and inhospitable these mountains would be in just a few hours. If he left the boy in this condition, he would die.
This was not part of the plan. Zac needed to avoid local contact and get to the Persian Gulf before the soldiers found him again. He looked down at the child. The boy had stopped crying and was pointing down the mountain. Zac’s arrival had given the child hope. Naturally, the boy expected Zac to take him home and, to his own amazement, Zac was considering it.
Graves had warned him to avoid people. Zac didn’t speak the language or know the customs. He was guaranteed to attract attention. The authorities would have undoubtedly told the residents that he was an enemy of the state or a dangerous, escaped killer.
But Zac had to decide whether or not he was still a member of civilized society. He’d killed the herder because the chance encounter had quickly spiraled out of control. Zac had done what he needed to do to survive, but leaving the boy to die was unconscionable. He decided to save the boy’s life to compensate for the one he’d unjustly taken. He knew the math of morality was not so simple, but it was the best he could do. He scooped the child up in his arms.
The boy guided them onto a path in the shade of the mountain where it quickly became cold. Zac wrapped his jacket around the shivering child and carried him piggy-back style. The boy even managed to laugh a few times when they bounced along the rough trail. Zac smiled. The child’s innocent happiness made him feel human again. It was amazing how quickly life could throw you a curve. Zac had planned to be out of Iran and on his way to Singapore six hours after he’d landed, yet he’d been arrested in less than an hour. But chance worked both ways. If not for his predicament, the little boy on his back surely would have died.
They followed a gently sloping trail as they neared the floor of the valley. Zac had seen most of the area from the higher elevations, but he hadn’t noticed any villages or even roads. They hiked for another half hour yet were no closer to civilization. He began to worry that the boy was lost. Zac was barely surviving on his own. He could not afford a traveling companion, especially a small and injured one.
The pair walked up a small hill and Zac’s concern deepened. He should have seen the boy’s village by now. Or maybe the boy had thought it funny, in the way small children do, to lead an adult on a wild-goose chase. Thoughts of leaving the boy alone in the wilderness crept back into Zac’s mind, but he fought them down.
The unlikely duo crested the small hill and Zac’s eyes came upon a sight from biblical times. In the twilight he could see a dozen people, several large tents, a few donkeys, and dozens of goats scattered around the hills. They were nomads, probably herders, encamped in the valley. One of the men called to Zac. He waved tentatively and began to walk into the camp. When the nomad was close enough to see their faces, he began shouting into one of the nearby tents. A chill shot down Zac’s back. What if the herder he’d killed was one of their clan? Zac was wearing his clothes.
TWENTY-FIVE
ZAC INSTINCTIVELY REACHED for the pistol, but it was in the pocket of his jacket, draped over the boy who was still riding piggy-back. He felt behind him, fumbling blindly with the zippered pocket. He couldn’t reach the gun. A woman came running out of one of the tents and the two nomads ran up the hill together. Zac had found their son.
The woman put her hand to her chest and bowed her head. The father embraced Zac and kissed him on both cheeks before taking his son into his arms. A flood of questions followed from the grateful parents, which Zac deflected to the boy. The happy child handed the windbreaker back to Zac.
He watched the emotional reunion play out in front of him, appreciating the parents’ obvious love for their child. A few other nomads gathered around and one of them spoke to Zac. Assuming the authorities were looking for an English-speaker, Zac responded in French, the only other language he spoke. He explained that he was a hiker who had gotten lost and had been wandering for days when he happened upon the boy. The herder interrupted in his native Gulf Arabic. He said something to one of the women, who ran off and returned a few seconds later with another boy who was dressed in the same faded, hardscrabble clothing worn by the others. He was fourteen or fifteen, with short hair and the scruffy beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip.
He asked, “English?”
Zac again responded in rapid-fire French, but the boy persisted.
“I am Hani. I speak English,” he said in a high-pitched voice and a thick accent.
“Ah, oui. I speak a little English too. I am . . . lost?” Zac spoke slowly, pretending to search for the right words.
“Where you from?” asked the boy.
“France. I was hiking and I am lost.”
Hani spoke to the group of men. Several responded at once, gesturing with their hands and shouting instructions. The boy was unsure of what to do until an older man spoke up. He was of average height, with rounded shoulders and a wispy salt-and-pepper beard. His tone was gentle and quiet and his eyes moved to each member of the group as he spoke. The men listened in silence. When he was finished, he took his young translator by the arm and walked over to Zac. The old man looked him over carefully before asking him to tell his story. Several of the other men gathered around to listen to the translated conversation, but the old man’s eyes never left Zac.
Zac explained that he had been hiking by himself for a week when he fell down a mountainside, losing his backpack, his camera, and all of his supplies. The pack had fallen into a gorge and he’d been unable to retrieve it. His map and compass had been in the backpack and, since the fall, he had been navigating by the sun. He had been wandering around the wilderness for five days. More than once, Zac’s feigned lack of fluency in English was used to mask important details, but much of the story was true. His ragged appearance and lack of supplies supported the fiction.
After several minutes of questioning, Zac turned the tables and began to ask where he was and how far it was to the closest city. A lost hiker would be overjoyed at having been found, and Zac needed to play the part. The elder told him that Bandar Abbas, a large city on the Persian Gulf, was about one hundred kilometers to the south.
Zac and the group continued their fragmented conversation while more men arrived intermittently from outside the camp. He could tell by their obvious relief that they’d been searching for the boy. The herders spoke among themselves. Again several men spoke at once. One man in his early twenties was particularly animated. He had close-cropped hair and a bushy beard. He gestured toward Zac, raising his voice and shaking his head while he spoke to the others. He wore a well-used windbreaker and carried a dagger in his belt. Despite his youth, he had the hard look of one who worked the land. He was not happy with their newfound guest and shot Zac a look of contempt. The father of the rescued boy jumped into the fray and shouted back at the younger man.
Zac considered leaving camp to resume his trek alone before the scene turned violent. He’d walked fifty or sixty miles already, although he doubted it was in a straight line or even in the right direction. To get to Bandar Abbas, he would have to cover that distance again, and the first time had nearly cost him his life. Unless the nomads were going to kill him or turn him over to the authorities, leaving in such a depleted state would be foolhardy. There was a chance that these people would welcome him as a fellow traveler of the land and give him food, water, and shelter. If he could stay here for even a day or two to regain his strength before setting out again, he would do it.
The quarrel among the herders had reached a crescendo when the o
ld man again raised his hands. The others fell silent as he spoke, softly and patiently, to the angry young man. His name was Husam, and he scowled and shifted on his feet as he listened to the elder, clearly displeased with what was being said. But he paid attention, as did the others, and in the end the old man and the rest of the group approached Zac and spoke through the teenage boy.
Hani explained that a trader with a truck met the nomads every few weeks to bring them supplies and take their goods to the market in Bandar Abbas. It would be three days until his next visit. Until then, Zac would be allowed to stay as their guest. He could avail himself of water, food, and a place to sleep. The trader would take him to the city. Zac shook the old man’s hand and thanked him profusely.
Zac was led to a large, wood-framed canvas tent that he would share with several others. He was given a bed roll, water, and a few pieces of stale pita bread, which he quickly devoured. Conditions that would have seemed primitive and uncomfortable just one week ago now seemed luxurious. He kicked off his boots and fell asleep on an empty cot.
One of the nomads awakened Zac for dinner. A clear and starry night greeted him as he stepped outside the tent. The air was full of delicious smells. He smiled while he walked, not knowing what lay ahead, only that tonight he would not be hiking through treacherous terrain and evading capture.
Fifteen or sixteen men were seated on the ground around a campfire. Many were talking, some were listening, and a few just stared into the flames. Everyone seemed relaxed. Zac was directed to a spot next to the old man. The air was cool, but the ground was still warm from the heat of the day. The sound and smell of the crackling fire reminded Zac of the many camping trips he’d taken back in the States.
Several women approached to serve the dinner and plates were handed to each of the men. Zac looked at the plates, which were filled with rice, flatbread, and chunks of roasted meat. He was ravenous, but when his own plate came, he saw that he hadn’t been given any meat, only a small serving of rice and a single piece of bread. He tried to mask his disappointment. He knew that food did not come easily to these people. It would not do to be an ungrateful guest.
The men ate with their hands while the conversations continued. Zac finished his small serving and placed his plate on the ground in front of him. The discussions around the fire abruptly stopped. Every pair of eyes focused on Zac.
The expressions of the other men turned sour. Only the night wind and the snapping of the fire broke the silence of the camp. Had Zac offended them somehow? The Persian and Arab peoples were proud, with long histories and long memories. Zac glanced at the group elder for guidance, but the old man turned away and stared into the fire. The stern expression on his face did nothing to calm Zac’s nerves. He looked for Hani but the boy was nowhere in sight. Husam was even more displeased than before. Zac looked back at the village elder.
The fire glinted in the old man’s eyes as he fixed his gaze on Zac. Slowly his face broke into a wide grin and the circle of men erupted in laughter. As Zac looked around, a second plate, stacked high with meat, bread, and rice, was handed to him by the mother of the boy he’d carried into camp. Zac too began to laugh, having fallen for the prank. He devoured the delicious food while the other men smiled and returned to their own meals and conversations.
Zac retired to the tent exhausted and feeling better than he had in a week, but despite the friendly hazing at dinner, it was clear from the body language of some of the men that he was not unanimously welcome in camp. The elder’s decision had ruled the day, but Zac would tread carefully until the truck came. Perhaps the army had warned these people about a dangerous foreigner or maybe they were wary of outsiders. Tonight he would sleep with the pistol close at hand.
TWENTY-SIX
BY THE TIME Zac awoke it was daylight and his bunkmates were already outside. He leaned against the wooden frame of the tent and gazed out over the camp. Some of the men stood with the goats near a small stream. Zac guessed these people knew the location of every stream, river, and watering hole within hundreds of miles. The women of the tribe wore hijabs that covered their heads, but without the veils required by some of the stricter Muslim sects. Several women were gathering sticks for the fire. Others carried baskets on their heads and shoulders as they performed chores. He walked outside, subconsciously touching his jacket to confirm the presence of the pistol, much like he used to check for his wallet before leaving his flat in London.
Zac decided to pitch in with the work. He looked for Hani to translate, but he didn’t see the boy. A lone woman was tending the fire. She was young and pretty, with classic Arab features and an elegant profile. Zac walked over and waited a moment for her to notice him. When she looked up and met his eyes, she let out a short scream that sounded more surprised than fearful, but it was loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in camp. Husam and two other men ran up from the stream. Two older women who were close by also headed toward the fire. They each kept a wary eye on Zac as they spoke with the girl.
When Husam was twenty feet away he drew his dagger. The nomad would be upon Zac before he could get the pistol from his pocket. With his eyes locked on the blade, he flexed his hands and prepared for the attack.
One of the older women turned and yelled. Husam stopped just out of arm’s reach. He kept the dagger up and shouted back at the woman, who was now hurrying toward Zac and Husam. Soon several people were gathered around. The older woman explained to the group what had happened, but Husam stood his ground, glaring. The woman barked at him again. Reluctantly, he broke eye contact and sheathed his knife. One of his friends led him away by the arm.
When Hani finally appeared, he explained to Zac that unmarried men and women were never to be alone in their culture, even in the middle of camp. Most of the nomads simply returned to their work, unfazed by the incident, but a few threw suspicious looks at Zac and spoke among themselves.
That afternoon, Hani took Zac to the village elder. The old man had heard about the incident by the fire. He said that the girl was Husam’s sister, and her brother was furious about her unsupervised contact with a man, but she would not be punished. The elder looked Zac in the eye for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke again.
He explained that the nomads’ ancestors had been the first settlers of this region. Indeed they had been one of the original peoples who’d emigrated south from the Fertile Crescent. For thousands of years their tribe had lived off the land as hunters and gatherers, following the food and water throughout the seasons. Now they raised domesticated animals and made carpets. They were traders and storytellers. They had survived without, and often despite, outside influences.
Zac was rapt. He stared intently at the elder as he spoke, forgetting even that Hani was translating. It was like being a participant in history, stepping back in time to when this man’s ancestors had lived as he did now; a hundred generations of nomads surviving off the difficult and forbidding land. The elder paused in thought before he spoke again. He said that the government did not value the nomads. It saw them as backward, an embarrassment to the aspirations of the state. The ayatollahs and their soldiers saw the rich oral history of the nomadic peoples as an obstacle to the future of Iran.
The nomads were Sunni Muslims of Arab descent, not Persian like the mostly Shi’a Iranians. The soldiers and police would occasionally harass the wandering peoples, often kicking them out of lands that they had traveled for centuries. The elder paused again. His eyes were dark and penetrating, and they never left Zac. With his chipped and crooked teeth, the old man smiled. He said that he did not believe that Zac was a lost hiker, but neither did he care. Their culture dictated that travelers and guests were to be treated graciously, and Zac had saved the little boy. Actions were the true measure of a man, said the elder. They would get Zac to the trader’s truck where he could make his way down to Bandar Abbas.
The elder turned away and stared into the distance. Almost as a
n afterthought, he spoke again. He said that soldiers had visited the nomads, looking for a man fitting Zac’s description. He said that Zac would be safe in camp, but he should be careful in the city. It could be a dangerous place.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE SOLDIERS AT the temporary command post turned when they heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. The big Huey orbited their position and touched down fifty meters away. The rotors were still turning when Colonel Arzaman jumped out of the open door. He emerged from a cloud of dust to find Captain Jafari waiting for him.
“How is it possible that you have not captured the American yet?” Arzaman asked.
“We’ve had a couple of false alarms; wildlife and nomads mostly, but no luck so far. We’ve been running a grid search and canvassing the locals with sixteen squads of our best men. Captain Rajavi has taken the southern half and my men are up here. We have two helicopters running expanding box searches from north of Gozm where Squad Five may have spotted something in the mountains, but the birds were late getting here and we had to suspend air operations for lack of daylight. We could really use some air support with infrared search gear, sir.”
“Two more helicopters are on their way from Isfahan, but they couldn’t leave the Nuclear Technology Center without coverage in case this American’s incursion was the start of something more. Show me your maps.”
Captain Jafari led the colonel to the table with the large-scale topographical map pinned to its top. Dozens of new markings in different colors denoted search areas, times, and any contact made along the way. Arzaman was angry, but Jafari was doing a thorough and professional job, and they were looking for a single man within a thousand square miles of rugged wilderness.
“We’re pursuing a lead that came in about two hours ago.” Jafari pointed to the map. “One of the helos spotted a man dressed like our target sprawled out on a rock slide. Animals were picking at the corpse but they hadn’t finished it off, so he’s probably been dead for less than twenty-four hours. Squad Four has already dismounted and are on their way in on foot. ETA is about an hour. If it’s our guy, it means the other sighting was probably just an animal.”
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