'You pass to Jamil my best wishes.'
'I will, Mr Shabro. I will see him tomorrow, if he can manage that.'
He had not asked why Charlie should wish an introduction to his brother, the renegade and the fly one from whom he kept a secure distance.
'Look after yourself, my boy.'
The outer door closed on Charlie's back. He stood in the centre of the outer office for a moment.
'I think Charlie has disappointed you, my dear.'
She shrugged. 'He might have rung.'
'He should have rung.'
'I mean… I don't just go, go out, with anyone. I'm not that type… '
She was efficient, she had his outer office organised, she was starting to learn the detail of his work. He wanted to keep Polly Venables. It was a peculiar request that Charlie had made to him that morning for an introduction to his brother.
His brother was involved in politics, and his brother had no visible means of financial support. Nevertheless, he had arranged the meeting.
'It would not be wise for you, Polly, to concern yourself too greatly with Charlie.'
Park strode out of the Home Office building.
It had taken only an hour. He had in his briefcase a photocopy of the paperwork completed at the time of issue of a stateless person's travel document to Charles Eshraq, refugee from Iran.
The name of the guarantor was Matthew Furniss, Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
9
'Good morning, Mr Furniss.' The voice was a wind whisper in trees.
Mattie started up from the tiled floor. He had been doing his press-ups.
'It is excellent to stay in good health, Mr Furniss.'
His jacket and his shirt were on the bed, his shoes were placed neatly under the bed. He was sweating under his vest and his hair was dishevelled. Of course they had watched him through the spyhole in the door. They would have waited until he was stripped down for his exercises before making the entry. The fitting of the plywood screen on the window had tiny gaps in it, and he had known hours before that it was daylight. He did not know how many hours because his watch had been taken from his wrist when he was still semi-concussed in the truck. He had sat for what he reckoned had been hours on his bed, sometimes he lay and tried to sleep, waiting for them to come, and when the hours had drifted away he had decided to do his exercises. Of course they had watched him.
'It is my great pleasure to meet you, Mr Furniss.'
Mattie spoke fluent Farsi, but the man spoke almost unaccented English. It was another tiny shaft into the shell of his spirit.
He was stumbling to his feet, and breathing hard. He would have liked to have stood his ground in the centre of the room, but his muscles were blood alive and his lungs heaved. He sat down heavily on the bed, and he started to pull his shirt over his shoulders.
'You are…?'
'I am the investigator in your case, Mr Furniss.'
'Do you have a name? A name would be a small courtesy.
And let me tell you my name. I am not your Mr Furniss. I don't need an investigator, thank you. I am Dr Owens, University of London, and I insist on being released immediately and on transport, at once, to my hotel. This has gone on long enough.'
'Excuse me.'
The man glided across the room and bent down close to Mattie and with sure movements he threaded the laces from Mattie's shoes and pocketed them, and then his hands came to Mattie's waist and he unbuckled the belt from the trousers and pulled it clear. There was a small expression of regret in the hazel eyes. Mattie read him. Not regret that he had to take away his prisoner's laces and belt, but irritation that it had not already been done.
It was the first time that he had been spoken to since his capture. The tray on which food had been brought to his room was on the floor beside his shoes. Neither of the men had spoken when the food was brought. The door unlocked, the tray put down just inside the door, a second man standing behind the one who had carried the tray.
It was as Mattie would have done it himself.
He had his shirt buttoned. He had his shoes loose over his socks. He smoothed down his hair.
He supposed that he was surprised that the investigator was not wearing a suit and tie. He noted the American jeans, faded, and the long tailed shirt, out of the trouser waist, and the sandals, no socks. He saw the harsh, short cut of the man's hair. He thought the man was a little younger than himself, he had spotted the grey pepper pot flecks over the temples of his head, and care lines below his eyes. Pretty horrible eyes.
Eyes without life.
'I should explain. You are in the Islamic Republic of Iran, Mr Furniss. You are of interest to the struggling masses of our people in their fight to rid themselves of American and Zionist and British domination. That is why you are here.'
He straightened his back, he drew the deep breath down.
'I am an archaeologist, I am not very interesting to anybody and I am no part of what you call British domination.'
The words hung, fell. Mattie saw the smile curl at the mouth of the investigator, but no humour in those awful eyes.
He said nothing.
'I can only suggest that you have made, whoever employs you, has made a mistake of which I am the victim. If a scholar cannot go about his work then the world has come to a pretty pass. I have devoted my adult life to the study of the Urartians, to their culture, to their architecture, to their disappearance.
You have people in London, I presume. You can check what I say with the Curator of Near Eastern Antiquities at the British Museum.'
'No doubt, Mr Furniss.'
The smile had gone from the investigator's face.
'I would be most grateful if you could make such checks as speedily as possible so that this ridiculous business can be concluded. I have no quarrel with the people of Iran, with their Revolution. I am not a politician, I am a scholar. I am engaged on work that is purely historical in its nature, and before I lose my patience will you kindly get it into your head that my name is O.W.E.N. S, Owens. I am not, quite obviously, who you think I am.'
'Mr Furniss, I came this morning to see you to establish that you were well, that you had not been injured. I did not come to discuss the cover story that you have manufactured for yourself.'
'Cover… this is preposterous. Go away, now. I have had enough of this. Go away and check before you get yourself into serious trouble.'
'Mr Furniss, later today you will be brought some sheets of paper and a pencil. You may begin to write down your reasons for travelling to that area of Turkey which has a common border with our country. You should write of your activities most fully.'
'I will, most gladly. You'll have a full account, and by the time I am finished I shall expect you back with a handsome apology. But I must warn you, I shall take this matter up at the British Embassy in Ankara, apology or no apology.'
The hazel eyes hovered over Mattie's body, seemed to weigh him, explore him. The voice was softer than before.
'Mr Furniss, let me remind you: between 1975 and 1978 you were the Station Officer in Tehran representing the British Secret Intelligence Service. There was a day in February, 1976, a morning, as I remember, when you came to the headquarters of the SAVAK. I remember it clearly because it was I who brought in the coffee for you
