“And how did it end?”
“Badly, but she’s no friend of the establishment.”
“Have you heard the expression that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”
Farid considered my words and looked legitimately worried as he turned onto the frontage road and drove northwest, where we thankfully didn’t see another car, let alone a police cruiser. About a mile from Zanjan-rud, we came over a slight rise and, just ahead, saw the remnants of a departing dust storm. In its wake lay a massive pile up of cars that had obviously collided during the temporary loss of visibility, and Farid and I both stared at the horror of the scene before our eyes.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“My CIA handbook would say to keep going, but the PJ in me feels like we need to stop and help.”
“What’s a PJ?” Farid asked.
“Parajumper. I used to be in a special operations unit that specialized in rescuing people and, if necessary, provide emergency medical help.”
“How the hell did you end up in the CIA?”
“I guess they figured I’d be equally good at hurting people.”
“Are you?” Farid asked a little nervously.
“I’d like to think I’m not, but the two Iranian policemen back at that falafel restaurant would probably disagree.”
We continued to drive closer and saw that a number of cars and a large fuel truck had collided, and now the center of the highway was blocked by a massive tangle of smoking metal. There weren’t any ambulances or safety vehicles in sight, so the victims were, for the moment, on their own.
“Fuck, we’re the only ones around. We have to help them,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
Farid pulled the car over to the side of the road, and we got out and were instantly bombarded by the sound of men, women, and children crying and calling for help. A fuel truck lay on its side at the center of the accident, and the smell of petrol permeated the air as a steady flow of gasoline was pouring from a ruptured valve and slowly engulfing the cars in a vast lake. It was only a matter of time before it ignited, and the entire place became a raging inferno.
“Any idea what we should do first?” Farid asked.
“Normally, we’d isolate any neck and back injuries, but the risk of them burning to death takes precedent, so we need to get everyone out and the hell away from the vehicles.”
We raced into the midst of the accident, and the smoke, screams, and carnage made me feel as though I were back on the battlefield. I hadn’t had to use my medical training much since leaving the Air Force, but it would definitely come in handy today. Farid and I spread out, going car to car, finding and helping people get free of their mangled automobiles. My first task was helping an old man out of his pickup truck, but the door was jammed, so I lifted him up over the sill and dragged him a safe distance away to where I created an improvised triage station. Next was a young couple in a sedan, and the woman was only semi-conscious as her husband tended to her by pressing his hand to a gash on her head. Unfortunately, they were both in shock and oblivious to the growing danger of their situation. I checked the woman first and suspected she might have suffered a mild concussion, but thankfully there was minimal bleeding and no sign of secondary symptoms such as nausea or vomiting. The man, on the other hand, had a leg injury, the severity of which was impossible to tell in the car. I helped them get out of the vehicle then carried the woman while the husband limped alongside holding onto my shoulder for support until we reached the triage area.
I made sure they were comfortable then rejoined Farid, where the two of us continued our search and managed to extricate what appeared to be the entirety of the victims. We paused to catch our breath but heard a cry for help, and the two of us ran over to discover a sedan that we had missed, because it was wedged between another car and the fuel truck. The car’s roof had been smashed down leaving only a thin opening, and inside was a woman, a little girl, and a baby boy who was strapped into a child seat in the back. The doors were obviously too damaged to open, and we needed a tool like the Jaws of Life but had nothing but our bare hands. Farid and I looked at each other and knew full well that we were their only hope. We therefore set about trying to pull up on the roof to create an opening, but it wasn’t long before I could smell smoke, and I looked up to see that flames were starting to rise from the front of the car.
“We’re running out of time. This entire place is going to ignite and catch fire any second,” I said.
“How are we going to get them out?”
“I’m going to check the truck for a tire iron or anything that might help us pry up the roof.”
I went to the toppled truck and kicked out the front windshield in order to rummage through the cab. Under the seat I found a massive tire iron, and I returned to the car to find the flames growing ever higher. I jammed the sharp end of the tire iron into the crack between the door and the roof, and Farid and I combined our strength and pushed down on the opposite end and forced a small section to bend upwards. A few more tries and we had a good-sized space, but it still wasn’t large enough for a person.
“I have an idea,” I said, taking the tire iron and running around to the trunk.
I managed to pop it open then rummaged around until thankfully finding the jack. Without the Jaws of Life, this was the most powerful tool we were going to find. I brought it over to the hole Farid and I had created then started cranking. In a matter of seconds, the roof started to creak and bend upward, and we finally had a big enough opening to reach in and pull the woman out of the wreckage. Halfway out, she started screaming, obviously for her children, but Farid managed to console her until she finally relented, and we pulled her free. With the mother clear of the car, I had room to reach across and get a hold of the little girl in the front seat, lift her out, and hand her to her mother. The flames were growing higher and practically burning my face, and I realized we only had seconds before this became a raging inferno. I desperately tried to reach the baby in the back seat, but I was too big to fit any farther through the opening.
“I’m thinner. I think I can reach him,” Farid said.
A man in an emergency services uniform appeared and tried to lead the mother and her daughter to safety, but she wouldn’t leave without her son. Farid spoke to her briefly, and she begrudgingly left with the man.
“I take it that you told her we would get her son out of the car.”
“Yes, in fact I promised.”
“Well then, you better get your heroic ass in that car and get that little fucker out of there pronto!”
The engine compartment of the car was now completely in flames as Farid slid into the front seat, disappearing into a cloud of smoke before reappearing a moment later with the baby boy in his arms. He handed him through the opening then followed just behind, coughing and retching from the smoke. We ran as fast as we could, but, when we were only about thirty feet from the car, a great blast of heat and concussive force knocked all of us to the ground. I lay there for a short time, recovering from the blast until more rescue workers arrived. They helped us up, and Farid carried the baby over to the mother, who gratefully took hold of him with tears of joy tracing paths down her soot laden cheeks. A paramedic led Farid and me back towards one of the waiting ambulances and gave us a quick exam, but, aside from the layer of soot that now coated both of us from head to toe, we were basically fine, so they turned their attention to the more needy people.
The arriving fireman started spraying water on the flames, and it sent up a massive cloud of smoke and steam that made it look like hell on earth. Unfortunately, the growing number of rescue workers and, more importantly, policeman on the scene were making me realize that our own personal hell was just coming into fruition. We needed to get the fuck out of here, and our only hope of a clean getaway now lay in the chaos of the moment. Judging by Farid’s face, he was thinking the same thing as we stood up and started moving calmly towards the edge of the crash scene. We stayed at
the fringe of the activity and passed through the lines of firemen to finally come out of the maelstrom to find a gaggle of policemen surrounding our car. They all slowly turned their attention to us, then the closest one spoke something in Persian.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Farid.
“Don’t worry. You might be a man of action, but I’m a man of words. I can totally talk our way out of this,” he said, confidently.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Colleagues with Benefits
TWO AND A half minutes later, Farid and I were handcuffed and sitting in the back of a Mercedes police cruiser. The upside was that it was more comfortable than any other car I been in since arriving in Iran, but the downside was that it might very well end up being the last comfortable car I was in before my premature demise.
“Great talking, Farid! At least you’re good at science,” I said.
“I’m sorry that I’m not more versed in the ways of deception and subterfuge,” he said, sarcastically.
“Yeah, me too.”
The trunk behind us opened, and some items were placed in it before it was slammed shut. The person who closed it walked around to the front and took a seat and proceeded to turn around and look at us with a rather stern expression on his face.
“Hello officer, is there perhaps a chance you might take us to the local bus station?” I asked.
He didn’t answer and, instead, turned back around and started driving northwest towards Zanjan-rud, where he was presumably taking us to the local police station. Meanwhile, more emergency vehicles came racing past from the other direction, and chatter from the police radio filled the car. It wasn’t the most enjoyable drive, and it was made even less enjoyable, considering we were handcuffed in the back of a police car and likely heading off to be tortured, imprisoned, and potentially executed, but I suppose that was the downside of being a spy.
We entered the city and soon came upon a large building that was bustling with police, but our driver, instead of stopping, continued past and made a right turn at the next block. This wasn’t a good omen, as it meant we were likely being taken into the custody of the local Iranian Secret Service office. We had a chance of escape with the local police, but a government installation would have much tighter security. We continued on for another half mile then turned left onto another street, where our driver inexplicably pulled to the side of the road in front of a bus stop then turned around to address us.
“I assume you were joking about the bus stop, so, if you have another destination, now is the time to tell me,” he said, in surprisingly passable English.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yes, now, where can I take you?”
“Are you a cop or a cab?”
“Cop, but right now you may think of me as a cab,” he said.
“I’m sorry if I’m having a hard time understanding you but…”
“Look, I know that you two are wanted because of an altercation with a couple of policeman.”
Sweet salty nuts sacks! We finally had some good luck! The police were unaware that I was trying to spirit away one of their most gifted nuclear scientists!
“Yeah, and I’ll have you know that those officers attacked me without any provocation in a restaurant bathroom. I was only defending myself,” I said, which was kind of true.
“You don’t need to tell me anything else about the matter, because I already know about those two officers and their well-known history of questionable behavior.”
“So, that’s why you’re letting us go?” I asked.
“No, the real reason that I’m not taking you to jail is because you risked your lives and your freedom to save a bunch of strangers, three of them being my wife, daughter, and son whom you pulled from that burning car. They were coming to meet me for lunch when they got caught in that accident, so again—where do you want me to take you?”
Holy shit. If I ever had a time to believe in Karma, this was it.
“But, won’t you get into trouble?” I asked.
“No, because the same dangerous men who managed to knock out a couple of policemen at a restaurant also managed to overpower me and get away, so, where to?” he asked.
“Well?” I asked Farid.
“Take us to Nabovat Street,” Farid said.
The police officer pulled back into traffic and, about five minutes later, pulled over and stopped. He exited the car and came around to the back door and let us out before removing our handcuffs.
“Your things are in the trunk,” he said, as he opened it, allowing Farid and me to grab our items before stepping up onto the sidewalk.
The man looked at us a moment, and tears appeared in the corners of his eyes as he began to speak.
“I will never be able to adequately repay you, so this is the best I can do at the moment. Also, I suggest you leave the country as soon as possible. Good luck, and may Allah be with you,” he said, before he hugged each of us then got into his car and drove away, leaving Farid and me standing there in awe at our incredible fortune.
“I didn’t see that coming,” I said.
“Me neither.”
“So, your colleague lives here?”
“No, two streets over. I wanted to be safe in case that policeman had a change of heart.”
“Nice! Now you’re utilizing proper deception and subterfuge and acting like a real spy.”
“Hopefully the effects are temporary.”
We grabbed our things and walked two streets over and stopped in front of a nice, though small, house.
“It looks like she’s home,” Farid said, pointing at the Mercedes parked at the curb.
We continued up to the front door, and Farid looked at me nervously as he reached out and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and there stood the perfect picture of exotic Iranian beauty. The woman before us had smooth olive skin, large inquisitive brown eyes, and dark lustrous hair that fell well past her shoulders. She also had a spectacular figure that was toned yet curvaceous, and her generous bustline strained against the fabric of her tight body hugging black dress. Unfortunately, she was scowling and apparently not very happy to see us, or, more likely, Farid, so I decided I better take the initiative.
“Hello,” I said, cheerfully.
She looked at me for a mere second before turning back to Farid.
“Hello, Farid,” she said, curtly.
“Hello, Afshid.”
“Aside from losing the beard, you look like shit,” she said, before turning her attention back to me.
“And you are?”
“Finn, Tag Finn. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
“And you are obviously American.”
“Correct, I’m an infidel.”
She smiled, but it disappeared when her gaze returned to Farid.
“What do you want?”
“I kind of need a favor.”
“You seriously have the gall to ask for a favor after the way you disappeared and never called?”
“I’m sorry about that but…”
“But nothing, you are a—what is the English word for it? Ah, yes—an asshole.”
“We really need your help—it’s life or death,” I said, interrupting.
She stood there simmering for a time before finally inviting us to come inside her home.
“Why don’t you clean up, and then we’ll talk.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Farid, you can use the guest bathroom. Mr. Finn, you can use mine. Farid will show you where it is—he’s been there before.”
Farid led me down the hall and pointed to the right, and I entered a rather neat and tidy bedroom, whose only furnishings were a kingsize bed, an Eames chair with a matching ottoman, and a floor to ceiling bookcase that took up an entire wall. I did a quick inventory of the shelves and saw that she was clearly an intellectual with the subject matter ranging from Plato to Thoreau to some more contemporary fun fiction such as Tom Robbins and Barbara Kingsolver. I
gazed at the rest of the room and saw on one wall a number of family pictures neatly arranged in black frames, while on the wall opposite the bed was a lone piece of artwork by the Iranian artist Samira Alikhanzadeh. I’d actually heard of her and therefore knew about her predilection for using acrylic paint, found images, and mirrors, as well as the fact that her work was often seen as exploring the search for identity in modern Iran. Afshid’s particular painting featured a combination of an image of a Persian rug blended with a black and white picture of a woman lost in a moment of thoughtful sadness, and it made me wonder if perhaps Afshid too felt it hard to find her identity in this culture. Clearly, her taste in art and literature showed that she was a complex and interesting person, though I couldn’t help but wonder why she would let me, a complete stranger into such an intimate space. I suppose it was just more proof of how angry she was with fucking Farid.
I put my bag down on the floor and entered the bathroom and finally had a good look at myself in the mirror. I really did look like hell. My face, arms, and clothes were covered in soot, and, worse still, I smelled like gasoline and charred rubber. I stripped down and left my clothes in a heap on the floor then turned on the taps and stepped into the shower. When the water was hot enough, I slid under the flow and let out a long sigh of relief then applied shampoo and lathered up with soap, all the while using the moment to try and process the events of the last few hours. I hadn’t encountered a scene like that since I left Afghanistan, and it brought on a surge of emotions that had been dormant for quite some time. I didn’t suffer from any extreme post traumatic stress disorder, but I still had a hard time forgetting the faces of the many wounded soldiers I went out to save. Many of them lived, but some of them died, and I’d forever carry the legacy of their death on my conscience.
I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and leaned my head under the stream of water and tried to let my traumatic memories pour from my mind and join the soap and water as it left my body and flowed down the drain. It helped, and I felt noticeably better as I turned off the water, though I discovered that I didn’t have a towel. Oh well, at least I was clean. I set about whisking the water off my body but stopped when I heard a knock at the door followed by Afshid’s voice.
Gordita Conspiracy Page 9