“I hope our Mossad friend doesn’t mind a little flatulence,” Farid said, with a laugh.
“All men secretly love farts.”
The front door of the house opened, and a figure carrying a small overnight bag emerged and walked across the dark front yard and over to the passenger door of the jeep.
“You two swingers want to party?” the visitor asked.
That was the correct code phrase, but the person speaking the words obviously was a she and not a he, so a flatulence friendly fellow passenger was not looking very likely. Of course, she might be the outgoing tomboy type who grew up with three brothers, in which case, we’d have a three way flatulence extravaganza.
“You know it! We are just two wild and crazy guys,” I responded, reciting the proper response phrase, which was taken from a now ancient episode of the television show Saturday Night Live.
“Well now, Dr. Ardeshir—are you ready for a wonderful decadent life in the West?”
“Indeed, I am,” he said, opening the door.
The light came on in the jeep and revealed, to my utter surprise, that our contact was not just female but intoxicatingly beautiful. Sweet lord of covert operations! She had hypnotically bright blue eyes, silky long brown hair and lovely smooth olive skin. Fuck—so much for a flatulence friendly contact. Even if she were the rugged tomboy type, there was no way in hell I was going to break the fart barrier in the tiny air space of the Pink Pig. The next few hours were therefore going to be a little painful, and I imagined that Farid was also feeling the same unease. Regardless, he smiled and offered to get in the back, but she declined and told him to stay where he was because of his height and longer legs. She threw her bag into the back seat and climbed aboard, sliding through the small opening, where I quickly realized that she also had a lovely figure. She plopped down in the middle and smiled as she leaned forward.
“I’m Ayala, it’s nice to meet you both,” she said.
“Nice to meet you too, and I’m Finn, Tag Finn,” I said.
I could now see that she was even more beautiful than I already thought, and I found myself imagining her in various states of undress. It certainly didn’t help that my sharp vision and male brain had already unintentionally allowed me to discern from her underwear lines that she favored a thong. It was a bit unprofessional to take note of a cooperating agent’s assets, but, sadly, it was just one of the pitfalls of being a male of the species. I was definitely excited about our new fellow passenger, but I couldn’t imagine why in the hell fate would put a woman like Ayala on an assignment that entailed riding around in a jeep with two gaseous idiots like Farid and me.
Suddenly there was a subtle pain in my stomach, and I looked over at Farid, and we shared a glance that let me know that he was feeling equally gassy. The next twelve hours were going to be especially difficult now that we had just welcomed a female aboard the lentil express. This was no longer a fart friendly operation, but, if Farid and I could hold in our gas and not explode in the next two hours, we would pass into Turkey, and he’d at last be a free man with a new life. I put the jeep in gear, and we left the quiet city of Urmia and headed into the gentle rolling hills of northern Iran and towards the border, which was a mere ten miles to the west. The windows were still down and Ayala leaned forward so she could be heard over the noise of the wind.
“Any reason you have the windows down?”
“No,” I lied.
Farid and I looked at each other nervously then closed our windows. I was back on the manual hand crank, and it took a hell of a lot more effort to roll it up, and each turn was a delicate balance between muscling the handle and holding back a great outburst of flatulence. Once the windows were up, the car was a lot quieter, and now we could hear the tiny Suzuki’s motor straining with all its might. It wasn’t exactly a comforting sound, but the Japanese had a knack for building small, reliable engines. I recited a silent prayer for the little Jeep to last another day then turned my attention to our new guest.
“So, what’s the plan for the border,” I asked.
“Since the authorities have an alert out for you, it’s plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Farid asked.
“I’ll drive across while you two walk. They’ll be looking for two men but not a woman. Then we’ll meet on the other side about a half mile north of the border.”
“Lovely night for a walk in the open air,” I said, to Farid, who smiled back at me.
“Indeed.”
“You two look a little uncomfortable. Is there something I should know.”
I laughed and almost farted, but thankfully kept my sphincter locked shut by wedging it against the vinyl seat.
“Have you ever eaten falafels and lentils in the same day?” I asked.
She leaned back and laughed out loud.
“Now I understand why you had the windows down. Please don’t let me be the source of your discomfort. Fart away if you have to. I’ve been trained to withstand all manner of torture.”
“Not this kind of torture, I’m afraid.”
Man could evolve only so far, and farting was hardwired into our brains. Still, I made it a rule never to do it around a new female companion for at least the first month or two if I could help it. After that point, however, practicality eventually won out—usually from both sides of the biological spectrum—and farts started flying. Since this mission was only going to last a few days at most, we’d hopefully never have to cross the fart barrier, so I, therefore decided it was time to focus my thoughts on the mission rather than my beautiful companion, and that started with a time check. I looked at my watch and realized it was a little after nine and well after dark, and all was going perfectly according to plan. The lights of the border were now visible in the distance, and there was nothing between us but open space and a smattering of rural dwellings. About a quarter mile down the road, Ayala leaned forward and told me to turn right at an old farmhouse. I slowed down, made the turn, and we bumped along on a dirt road, but the little Jeep’s suspension did its best to handle the holes and ruts. We passed another house, though this one was well-lit, and I kept a close eye on the windows for any people. Ayala was watching me in the rearview mirror and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, this road gets a fair amount of traffic from the locals, so no one is going to give us a second look,” she said.
Oddly, I enjoyed the brief, though innocent touch, but soon I was back to focusing on the road, where I had to constantly swerve to one side or the other in order to avoid a ruthless procession of bone jarring potholes. At just under a mile according to our odometer, Ayala told me to stop the Jeep.
“There is a path here that leads to the border. After you cross over, continue following it for about a half mile due west until you reach the road on the Turkish side. I’ll be waiting there, but if you don’t arrive by midnight, I will assume you have been killed or captured. Good luck.”
“Then, either way, I suppose we’ll be seeing you on the other side,” I said.
I meant it as a wacky double entendre, with the other side referring literally to the other side of the border, and, figuratively, to the afterlife if we didn’t survive, but no one seemed to get it, so I suspect it was more of an American thing—or perhaps, more likely, my own peculiar thing. Farid and I headed off into the dark Iranian night, the air crisp and a little cool for summer, but a welcome respite after having spent the first part of the day huffing farts in the Pink Pig. The path left the road and soon skirted a lovely little creek, where the only sound beyond the trickling water was the chorus of frogs and crickets. Unfortunately, this was a covert border crossing, so we didn’t have the luxury of using flashlights and instead had to navigate using only the tiny slivers of moonlight that made it through the trees. This made the going slow, and we only managed a few unhindered steps before stumbling over the next root or rock that dotted the path.
“This brings back some memories,” I said.
�
��Oh, have you made many border crossings in the middle of the night?”
“A few, but I’m referring to a night in Afghanistan when I rescued a downed helicopter pilot up in the mountains.”
“I assume by your presence here that you were successful?”
“Yeah—but just barely.”
“Should I find that reassuring?”
“Mostly—but I did get shot.”
“Well—as long as it was only you.”
The path eventually left the creek and headed into an open grass covered hill, where the partial moon was illuminating the surroundings with monochromatic light and making it look more like an alien planet. The path soon came to a road, and I decided to pause and take a look at my GPS.
“Almost home,” I said.
I felt a sudden building pressure in my abdomen and realized I was still holding back all the gas from the lentils. I leaned slightly onto one leg and let loose a long powerful blast of gas, and immediately felt better.
“That’s all you’ve got? The mere ramblings of a child,” Farid said, just before ripping a much louder, longer fart.
“That was just the opening band,” I said, before letting loose another, slightly louder fart.
Farid suddenly placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Wait, did you hear that?”
“Of course, everybody in a hundred mile radius probably heard it.”
“No, not your fart. I think I heard something else.”
I listened and realized I could hear a vehicle rapidly approaching from down the hill.
“Who do you think it is?” Farid asked.
“I want to believe it’s a local farmer, but I have a bad feeling it’s probably an Iranian border patrol. Either way, we need to find a place to hide.”
“Yeah, but where?”
The area was pretty much devoid of cover except for a large rocky outcropping on the other side of the road.
“Let’s get our asses behind that rock,” I said.
I could see the headlights now, and it would only be seconds before they were on us. We sprinted and dove behind the rocks just as the vehicle arrived, and the entire area was suddenly ablaze with light. The vehicle drew closer and suddenly stopped no more than twenty feet away, and I was really, really, really hoping that they hadn’t seen us. I leaned out to take a peek at our new arrival and discovered that it was indeed an Iranian border patrol, and, shortly thereafter, two men got out of the truck and began walking towards our rock. Shit monkeys. I continued to watch and listen, and, as they drew closer, I could hear them speaking.
“What are they talking about?” I asked Farid.
“I believe they are stopping to go to the bathroom.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I suppose it is the only real landmark in the near vicinity, so what man wouldn’t pee on it?”
The two men walked over to the other side of our rock, and we heard two zippers followed by the sound of urine trickling like a mountain brook. A moment later one of them farted, and they both laughed. Then, there was another fart, and, judging by the difference in tone, was probably the other guy. Farts often had distinctive sound signatures depending on the physiology of the farter, and I always suspected that people’s anuses were like musical instruments and, therefore, had a unique resonance and tone depending on the farter’s anatomical makeup. Perhaps in our primordial past before speech, we communicated with our anuses. It was certainly a possibility, considering the fact that people studying gorillas in the wild often found them by listening for their insanely loud flatulence.
The peeing came to an end, and we heard them zip up and then walk back to their vehicle. Their truck started a moment later, and I breathed a sweet sigh of relief when they continued on their way along the road that skirted the border. A second later Farid farted again, and it enveloped us in a great cloud of methane.
“Sweet mother of God. My eyes are starting to water.”
“Tears of joy, my friend—tears of joy,” Farid said.
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of your fart.”
We continued on down into a ravine and came upon a wide slow moving river, which bisected the valley floor and, along with a barbed wire fence, created both a natural and man-made barrier between the two countries. This wasn’t the wet season, however, so the low water level inadvertently provided the perfect way to simply crawl under the fence. We made our way across the riverbed by going from rock to rock before finding a spot with enough room for us to shimmy under the fence and emerge on lovely Turkish soil.
“Better get all your gas out now, as we’ll be back with that hot Mossad agent in about fifteen minutes.”
A quarter mile later, the trail reached the road, and that meant we had arrived at our designated meeting spot.
“Where’s our girl?” Farid asked.
“No idea—she should have gotten here first. I guess we’ll just have to wait.”
We found a fallen tree just off the road and sat down and listened as the sounds of nature returned and filled the formerly quiet night. Tiny animals foraged, insects buzzed, and the wind rustled gently through the trees and grass. Back in my early martial arts training, my eclectic karate teacher taught me how to blend into my environment and read the signs and, more importantly, the sounds. A quiet forest or jungle meant that something or someone foreign was nearby or had just passed through, while a noisy one meant exactly the opposite. The goal, therefore, was to become a part of your surroundings and blend so perfectly that even the wild creatures around you accepted your presence. This came in especially handy during my time in special operations, where I spent a lot of time out in forests and jungles. There, the idea was to was to master my surroundings in order to make it a hell of a lot easier to master my enemy.
Ten minutes of silence, and we were so completely in tune with the world around us that a fox came out of the brush and gave us a brief sniff before moving on down the road. A moment after he passed, Farid passed gas. It wasn’t exactly a peaceful sound and odds were pretty good that any nearby animals were already scurrying for their little lives. In ancient times Farid could have fed an entire village by hunting with his mighty anus. He would have walked onto a grassy plain, farted and, shortly thereafter, hundreds of animals would have been dead at his feet. Larger animals like buffalo or deer might have needed two farts, but, either way, dinner would have been served.
“I used to think I was a pretty good farter until I met you,” I said.
“What can I say? I excel at everything I do, and farting is just an extension of my greatness.”
“Yeah, or your diet. Sweet Lord, I would have thought that your digestive system would have adapted to Middle Eastern food by now.”
“No one is above the power of the falafel.”
“Or the lentil, apparently.”
“Yes, true, the lentil is its equally cunning cousin.”
“Yeah, and let’s hope both of those fuckers are behind us so we can survive the coming hours in the jeep.”
Headlights appeared about a quarter mile away, and Farid and I slipped back into the trees to wait. A moment later, the vehicle drove past, and we could see it was an old pickup truck most likely being driven by one of the local farmers. A second pair of headlights appeared a minute later, though this time, the vehicle stopped about twenty feet from our hiding place. The brights flashed twice, so we knew it was our girl. Well—hopefully, but we wouldn’t know for sure until we got up close and personal. Farid and I ventured out of our hiding spot and around to the passenger side of the little jeep and thankfully saw Ayala sitting behind the wheel.
“Sorry for the wait, but the border was slow, because a fucking truck in front of me got stopped and searched.”
“No problem, we were having a wonderful romantic night, farting under the stars,” I said.
“And talking about farting as well,” Farid added.
“Well, both of those are probably romantic f
or guys,” Ayala said.
Farid hopped in back, then I took up residence in the passenger seat and buckled up as Ayala put the jeep in gear and turned around and headed back towards the main highway. A mile on the bumpy dirt road in the little jeep, and I was happy to hit the smooth pavement of the highway, where we were soon moving along at our usual seventy-five miles per hour and pushing the little jeep’s engine to its limits.
“So, where do we spend my first night of freedom?”
“We’ll have to pick a spot, though I’d like to gain as much distance from the border as possible before your country figures out where the hell you’ve gone.”
“Such a pessimist! We’re in Turkey! What could possibly happen now?” Farid asked.
CHAPTER TEN
Istanbul, not Constantinople
I WAS HAPPY to admit that Farid’s optimism was apparently justified, for we spent his first night of freedom in relative peace in a little hotel room in the city of Yüksekova. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was home for a few restful hours until the next morning when we traveled north across Turkey towards the storied city of Istanbul, the former eastern capital of the Holy Roman Empire and gateway where east truly met west. There, we would be staying at a hotel near the harbor then leave the following morning on a Spanish registered fishing vessel named the Gordita. So far, it was appearing as though Operation Eagle Feather was going exactly according to plan, and the little pink Suzuki was still chugging along, bless its tiny little four-cylinder heart.
We could see our destination only a few miles off in the distance, while off to our left was the lovely Aegean Sea. I was at the wheel, Ayala was riding shotgun, and Farid was stretched across the back seat, where he was napping but thankfully not farting. Actually things had been unusually quiet in the flatulence department since joining up with our beautiful Mossad agent Ayala, as there was nothing like having a woman around to keep the men’s sillier habits in check.
It was about noon, and being close to the water meant more humidity, but the day was still young, and the temperature was a very comfortable seventy-two degrees. The windows were down, this time for pure enjoyment rather than the fear of farts, and the car was awash with fresh sea air. I felt eyes on me and looked over and shared a smile with Ayala, and it was yet another bonding moment in our long and thankfully uneventful drive. Sure, we were on an important covert operation, but we ended up spending the time telling each other about our lives before and during government intelligence service. Oddly, our backgrounds were fairly similar, though I had done college before the military, while she had done the exact opposite due to Israel’s conscription policy. Then we had both entered the spy game and lived the solitary life of someone who had to keep a lot of secrets. I enjoyed her company and found it especially nice to have someone who could actually empathize with my unusual life. Our road trip, therefore, proved to be one long cathartic conversation about the eccentricities of our career choice and eventually broached the question that we all lived with every day—namely, where does your life of service to your country end and your personal life begin? Sadly, neither of us had yet managed to find an adequate answer to that question.
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