by Oliver Tidy
Zoe lay on the gurney bed, her mother held her hand. Acer sat on the closed lid of the box that would soon be the girl’s hiding place and hung on to the bar behind him for stability.
Traffic parted for them and they made good progress. Soon they were out of the sprawling urban districts that characterised the outer edges of the city and riding the winding approach road to join the Persian Gulf Freeway to the capital. Once on this highway they would be without options other than the direction they were heading in.
Within a short while the closely packed buildings that huddled together within the sanctuary of the city had given way to vast uninterrupted swathes of baked, featureless landscape, pockmarked only by small clusters of poor housing and natural deformities in the bleak terrain.
The air in the ambulance was stifling. It was like a mobile oven as the air-conditioning proved largely ineffectual.
The roadblock was a little over a mile along. Just far enough out of town to give the authorities time and opportunity to do as they pleased without too many distractions. In Acer’s mind there had been the slim hope that those with a vested interest in having Dominique recaptured would not be so organised. There had always been the possibility that they might escape Qom before the searchers had widened their nets to seal off the city. The knowledge that such measures were so quickly in place gave him pause for grim thought. It was a reflection of how seriously the authorities were taking the news of Dominique’s escape. It was also a sobering reminder, if he needed one, of the system they were up against – a machine that could mobilise and organise with speed, efficiency and numbers.
Hassan called through that they should arrange themselves. His voice reflected his growing tension. He slowed their speed slightly to give them that opportunity while maintaining the illusion with sirens and lights that they were an emergency service going somewhere in a hurry.
Zoe was helped off the bed and into the small box. To the girl’s credit she faced the prospect of her claustrophobic confinement without hesitation. As Dominique mumbled something quick and quiet to her daughter, the girl’s eyes were fixed on Acer. He felt she was communicating something to him, but it could just as easily have been his imagination. Dominique kissed her daughter on the forehead and gently closed the lid. She then arranged her niqab, pulled the hood of the chador tightly around her head and sat on the box. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and adopted the bearing of a suffering woman praying for the life of a close family member. If the reality of her situation did not suitably encourage this, she had plenty of experience to draw upon.
Acer organised himself on the gurney bed and secured himself to it with the two large straps. It was only then that he noticed the dirty, battered trainers he was wearing. To him, they looked out of keeping with the person he was supposed to be. He hurriedly kicked them off and Dominique slid them out of sight. Then he fitted the oxygen mask, and lay staring up at the vehicle’s roof, listening to the noise of the engine and the rattling of the fixtures and fittings as the vibrations gently shook everything. He tried to ignore his queasiness and the heat, his dread and the thoughts of his daughter being alive. He focussed on the dangers of his here and now as their speed began falling off.
Hassan’s voice, muffled behind his light cotton mask, provided something new for their fears to feed off. ‘We’re being waved down.’ He could have offered a last bit of good advice but chose not to.
Acer could not see the snaking queue of traffic that cluttered up the nearside lane in the sweltering open landscape, waiting to be inspected at the roadblock. A soldier, automatic weapon slung carelessly over his shoulder, was standing in the middle of the road waving them down. Hassan brought the ambulance to a stop.
The soldier approached Hassan’s open window. Something was said. Hassan replied. There was a heated exchange and then the engine was cut. Acer’s stomach lining peeled away. He shut his eyes tightly and sought out the last image he could remember of his daughter.
Both front doors were opened and the vehicle rocked lightly on its suspension as Hassan and Niki got out. The doors were shut and the voices became just muffled, indistinguishable sounds. Neither Acer nor Dominique risked speech.
There was the sound of boots on the road, the back door catch being fiddled with and then a blast of traffic fumes, noise and light as the rear door was thrown open. Still with his eyes firmly closed, Acer heard and felt someone take the two steps into the back of the ambulance. Something was said. Hassan’s voice answered. Then the new voice again and Hassan once more. A long moment later the questioner retreated down the two metal steps. The door was shut. More muffled voices moving down the side of the ambulance. The front doors opening. Bodies getting in. Doors slamming shut and the engine was started. They began rolling away, picking up speed.
‘We’re through,’ called Hassan, and there was something of the triumphant about his shout.
Acer released a heavy breath, opened his eyes, removed the mask and started fiddling with his straps. Dominique already had the lid off the box and was helping Zoe to step out. The girl was squinting and her fringe was stuck to her forehead with perspiration. Once again her eyes were fixed on Acer’s face.
He swung himself off the bed and passed across a bottle of tepid water, which Zoe gulped at.
They shuffled positions and he stuck his head between the front seats. The road ahead was virtually empty. Just a long, black, narrow strip of shimmering asphalt rolled out across the top of desert.
Unnecessarily, Acer said, ‘No problems?’
And just as unnecessarily, Hassan said, ‘No. They seemed quite satisfied with our little simulation.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Acer. The relief made him exuberant. ‘It’s all down to you two. You’re risking everything. We know that. Our gratitude doesn’t seem enough.’
Hassan risked taking his eyes from the road for a few seconds to look into Acer’s face. ‘Get them home and tell the world what happened here and that will be enough.’
***
19
The remainder of the drive to Tehran passed without incident and with little conversation. Hassan kept the speed appropriately quick without putting them at risk with dangerous driving. There were no windows in the rear of the ambulance. Even if there had been there would have been little of interest to see – mile after mile of dead land stretching away in every direction. The only distractions were the traffic heading the other way and the occasional isolated settlement.
Zoe was back on the portable bed with her mother by her side. Dominique had lain her head down on the bedding and appeared to be trying for sleep. Acer braced himself on the box and rocked and swayed and sweated and thought.
The motion and lack of activity encouraged Acer to close his eyes and rest. It came as a surprise to him when Hassan hailed him and passed on the news that they were approaching the outskirts of the capital. Dominique was awake, upright and looking at him.
‘Do we need to move Zoe?’ she said.
He could see that the girl was asleep. He shook his head. ‘Leave her until we have to.’
He turned so that he could speak to Hassan. ‘Whereabouts in the city is the railway station?’
‘Not far into the city from our direction. But we will not go there immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘We are too soon for the train. We would have to wait, be exposed. Besides, arriving at the railway station in an ambulance will make us memorable, no?’
‘Of course.’
‘We have a safe place to stay. Please, now keep yourself out of sight until we arrive.’
With little option, Acer slumped back down onto the box. He relayed the information to Dominique. She smiled her thanks.
He said, ‘How’s Zoe?’
‘Tired. Weak.’
‘When we get onto the train she’ll be able to rest properly.’
The noise of the metropolis amplified gradually and proportionately with the steady growth in traffic volume and inc
reased density of the city.
Hassan had turned off the siren and the lights and reduced their speed so that they no longer looked like they were on an emergency call. Anyone following them might have thought they’d lost their patient. They weaved their way through streets and districts until they came to a pair of closed gates that fronted the driveway of a detached family home.
Niki got out and pushed them open. Hassan drove through and brought the ambulance to a halt under a tree at the side of the house. He killed the engine and turned to his passengers.
‘Niki will check things are as they should be and then we will wait in the house.’
‘What is this place?’ said Acer, more for conversation than because he needed to know.
‘The home of a sympathiser with our cause. He is not here.’
Niki opened the rear doors. Hassan came around to the back of the ambulance. After a quick look around, he said, ‘Follow me.’
Acer stepped out, still in his Arabic clothes. Dominique lifted Zoe down and the girl then walked holding her mother’s hand. They both wore scarves over their heads. There was a car in front of the house. Hassan noted Acer’s interest.
‘It is our transport to the railway station,’ he said.
‘It seems you’ve thought of everything, Hassan.’
‘Let’s hope so, shall we?’
Behind them Niki was busy arranging a tarpaulin to cover the ambulance from view.
Acer’s attention was taken by a mountain range rising above the cityscape on the far side – to the north. ‘What are they?’
Hassan followed his gaze. ‘The Alborz Mountains.’
‘Does it snow here in winter?’
Hassan gave his first impression, since Acer had met him, of finding something funny. ‘Yes. It snows in winter.’ And then in an effort to counter any offence he may have given, he said, ‘It is hard to imagine with temperatures like today. The skiing in the mountains is as good as anywhere.’
He let them in through the front door. The entrance hall was spacious with high ceilings, clean and well furnished with large, bulky, dated furniture – lots of dark, polished wood and fabric. A white marble pillar formed the centrepiece of an elaborate concentric design laid out in black and white floor tiles. This was a rich person’s home, thought Acer. The place smelled like it needed the windows opened for a few hours, but it was a few degrees cooler than outside, which was a welcome relief. He immediately removed the Arab clothing he felt he could never get used to.
Hassan left them there. Niki came in through the front door behind them and Acer felt an opportunity present itself. He had amends to make with her for the incident on the road when they were first heading towards the factory. He had overreacted and allowed his anger to boil over at someone who was helping them, risking her life for them. It didn’t matter that she clearly didn’t like him or what she was involved in, but she was doing it. She was endangering herself for her cause and that was always something for the ex-soldier to respect and admire.
‘Niki,’ he said. The use of her name produced a reflexive reaction of surprise. She turned to glare at him. He tried to ignore it. ‘I just wanted to say, thank you. For all you’re doing to help us. I know you’ve got your own motives but we’re still very grateful for everything. I want you to know that.’
She kept her eyes on him for a stretched and awkward moment before simply nodding her head. He noticed that the scowl wasn’t far off her features. It didn’t bother him. He’d tried to make some peace with her. If she wasn’t interested, so be it.
Hassan walked back in smiling, his footsteps, noisy across the ceramic floor, ricocheted around the generous space. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We should use this time to eat. There is good food in the kitchen.’
And there was. A small feast of Iranian dishes that surpassed the moveable feast Hassan had provided in the flat above the factory – wonderful salads and dips, more of the inviting and aromatic mezes, plenty of proper bread, and cheeses and cold meats. Acer believed that if it tasted half as good as it looked it would be a meal to remember for a long time.
They arranged themselves around the table and tucked in without ceremony. Acer was reminded how excitement and the tide of adrenalin could ebb to leave him feeling famished.
The lack of conversation was not as awkward as it would have been without the distraction of food. Acer watched to see what Dominique would be able to encourage her daughter to eat, but the girl seemed content to nibble and pick at bread, like a sick little bird.
It was none of his business but he wanted to try. The girl would need energy and reserves of something to call on in the coming days. The only way she would get that would be through food. ‘You’ve got to try and eat something, Zoe. I need you to build your strength up. I’ll need you to help me with things. To be strong.’
Dominique looked at him and there was something in her eyes that he took as appreciation for his care and his general manner with her daughter.
Zoe, too, looked at him with her unsettling stare and then she spooned up some of the couscous.
He smiled at her. ‘Good girl. The food’s great,’ said Acer to his host.
‘Traditional Persian cuisine has a rich and long history,’ said Hassan.
‘I really don’t know much about Iran at all. Other than the headlines in the news from time to time.’
‘And we all know what sort of a picture the world’s media like to paint of Iran,’ said Niki.
‘So tell me what it’s really like,’ said Acer.
‘Why? Why do you want to know? You made it quite plain to me what you think of Iran and its people.’
Acer put down his fork. ‘I’m sorry for that. It was heat of the moment stuff. I was wrong to say what I said. I’ve lost family because of something connected with the Iranian regime. It was wrong of me to taint all Iranians with the actions of a few. I apologise.’
Niki did not stop eating. ‘Who have you lost?’
‘My wife and daughter.’
She paused then and held his gaze. ‘How?’
‘We were all on a ship together in the Pacific. It’s where I know the Hammonds from. Everyone else on that boat was killed, disappeared, just so that they could be kidnapped and traded with Iran by a man who viewed dealing in lives the same way he viewed dealing in arms.’
‘And you?’ said Niki.
‘I escaped.’
Hassan was staring intently at Acer. ‘I did not know that you had a personal involvement in this business.’
‘No reason why you should.’ Acer made a little noise of forced amusement. ‘It’s why me. I was asked to do this because of my personal involvement. I fell for that line.’ He caught Dominique looking at him and added. ‘But I’m glad that I did.’
Hassan said, ‘So this sort of work is not something you are used to?’
‘No. It’s not. I’ve never done anything like this in my life. And I was only supposed to come here and get evidence that the Hammonds were still alive.’ He shot a guilty look at Dominique. ‘Sorry.’
She smiled tiredly back and shook her head to let him know it was OK.
‘What is your more normal line of work?’ said Hassan.
‘Soldier.’
‘Special services?’
‘No. Humble and lowly Lieutenant in the British Army.’
Acer noticed something pass between Niki and Hassan. He wondered if his revelation worried them. Undoubtedly they had been anticipating a spy with training of working behind enemy lines at best, certainly someone more professional with at least some experience of what they were involved in. And then he reminded himself that still being here in Iran was not his idea. It was theirs. They’d taken that decision and engineered the situation they all found themselves in.
‘You’re siblings, aren’t you?’ said Acer.
‘Yes,’ said Hassan.
‘What has brought you both to this point? There must be something personal in it for what you’re both risking, for the lengt
hs you’re both going to.’
‘We lost our parents,’ said Niki, and she was staring at him with an unfriendly look that Acer found difficult to fathom.
‘How?’
Acer saw that Hassan was frowning at his sister. She noticed it too and went quiet. Hassan made a show of checking his watch.
‘I suggest we start thinking about what is to come rather than dwell on the past. It will be more useful for us.’
‘How long before we leave for the station?’ said Acer.
‘An hour. Time to finish the food and prepare ourselves. We’ll go in the car to the railway station. There is parking opposite the main entrance. The train for Bandar Abbas will be waiting for us to board.’
‘What about our luggage? We’ll need suitcases won’t we?’
Again Hassan smiled patiently. ‘They are in the car already.’ Hassan pushed his plate away. He’d barely touched his food. He stood and removed cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. ‘I suggest we all take the opportunity to use the facilities here and prepare to depart in an hour?’ With a quick nod in Dominique’s direction he went outside to smoke.
Niki put down her knife and fork, stood and left without a word.
Acer looked at the mother and child.
‘He seems all right, but she doesn’t like us, does she?’ said Dominique.
‘I said some things she won’t easily forgive. It was stupid of me. I should be looking to make friends here not enemies.’
‘It looks to me like it goes deeper than that.’
‘Had enough to eat?’
She nodded. Zoe had stopped picking at her food and was staring at Acer.
‘Right, Zoe. You heard the man. Shall we find the bathroom?’
***
20
It was late afternoon when they left the house. The British, dressed once again in their Arabic clothing, took the back seat. Zoe, now wearing a child’s version of the chador and niqab, nestled between Acer and her mother. Niki and Hassan had changed out of their paramedics uniforms into something more appropriate for the journey and their roles.