‘Yes, of course,’ Kite replied.
‘So it is no exaggeration to say that I thought of the Imam as a man with the potential to be the Gandhi of Iran. The Revolution, in which I played a willing part, a revolution in which I still believe, promised Iranians a total break with the chaos and injustice of the past. The shah had promised to make Iran the fifth largest economy in the world. He promised “Prosperity for All”. Instead, he enriched himself on bribes and kickbacks while his people starved and suffered. The rural poor were illiterate. They lived in clay huts without electricity or running water where the only warmth – in a country rich in oil and natural gas! – came from burning dried cow manure. Can you believe such a thing, when other countries at this time could put a man in space, a man on the moon? We believed in freedom of the press, freedom of speech. A government of the people, for the people. Revenues from oil would pay for free electricity, free water, free telephone calls. These were our dreams! I knew that there were problems, that we were Persians, not Arabs, that we should not allow Islam to become too closely entwined with the business of government, but I was young like you and surrounded by men who convinced me of these things. I was a dreamer! Am I boring you, Lachlan?’
Kite almost jumped out of his seat, wondering how on earth Eskandarian could have reached such a conclusion.
‘Definitely not!’ he said, hoping to God, to Allah, to whatever deity Peele and Carl believed in, that the lamp was beaming every word of his conversation with Eskandarian to the listening post less than a mile from where they were seated.
‘Good,’ Eskandarian replied. ‘You don’t look bored! I just like to check. Sometimes the younger generation has no interest in politics, you know? Why would you want to listen to an Iranian businessman going on about the good and the bad things in his country? I have a habit of taking advantage of the young, trying out ideas on them that it would be – how can I express this – too risky to express to my friends and colleagues at home. I can only speak to the likes of you and Luc about it. Hana has no interest!’
‘What kind of ideas?’ Kite asked. He was aware that he was slouching. He pulled himself up on the sofa. ‘Does Luc have some ideas on Iran?’
It was the first slip he had made, demonstrating what might have been interpreted – both by Eskandarian and by Peele across the road – as an unusual interest in Luc’s attitudes. Thankfully Eskandarian did not seem to interpret it as such. Indeed, in his response there was a faint suggestion of a disagreement between the two men which Eskandarian was keen to skirt over.
‘We discuss a great many things. Luc, as you know, is a businessman with a wealth of experience.’ Was he hinting at a darker, more complex relationship? ‘We are old friends. We talk candidly.’
‘What did you mean about Iran becoming the wrong sort of country?’ Kite was trying to sound concerned and touchingly naive in equal measure. ‘Is Bijan right? That the Revolution has ended up hurting people?’
Eskandarian hesitated. On the one hand he appeared to be in the mood to hold a frank and honest conversation, but on the other he was a citizen of the Iranian state, an adviser to its president, a government-sponsored official trained to avoid saying or doing anything that might be interpreted as treasonous, even if his only audience was a harmless eighteen-year-old boy.
‘It is certainly the case that elements within the state wanted to sustain the Revolution, to give it a religious character, an Islamic character, and they have done this by limiting freedom of expression, to a certain extent.’
Kite knew that this was baloney and tried to extract a fuller answer.
‘You mean women?’
‘Women, yes. But this is hardly new in Islam, Lockie! I for one do not believe that women should be allowed to walk around the streets looking like Madonna!’
You hypocrite, he thought, wondering how Eskandarian squared this view with Hana’s micro miniskirts, her figure-hugging black dresses, her suitcase full of lingerie and French perfumes. Eskandarian must have sensed his surprise because he added: ‘Of course over here it is different. In the nightclubs of Antibes, on the streets of Paris. In Iran it is preferred that such expressions of fashion be made privately, in the home.’
‘Of course.’ Kite smirked encouragingly. He thought of the faces of the young women killed on Pan Am 103. ‘So what Bijan said is true? In fact you yourself even talked about this last night in the club. That you don’t have discos in Iran. You can’t listen to the sort of music we heard in Antibes or played on the terrace last night?’
Eskandarian smiled uneasily. Kite stubbed out his cigarette and wondered if he was being too pushy. He wanted to extract as much useful information as possible, but he was also keen to put on a good show for the Falcons. He recalled Peele’s advice: Play the innocent schoolboy. See if he confirms or denies what Bijan told you or lands somewhere in the middle. How could he keep Eskandarian talking without seeming to be too critical of his political views? The idea was to get the Iranian to trust him, not to make him think that Lachlan Kite was a pious bore.
‘Music is available,’ Eskandarian replied. ‘We can listen to it in our homes. But what this man Bijan said about people being stoned or whipped for these offences is nonsense.’
‘Yeah, I thought so.’ Kite made a face
