Kite saw that he was dealing with a fanatic. He wondered if he was compromising or in some other way undermining his own mission by agreeing to sit with an individual so opposed to Eskandarian.
‘I really should be going,’ he said, reaching for the book. ‘I’m just a friend of the family. You’ve confused me with somebody else.’
‘Have I? Have I confused you, kind sir? Do you not care that gangs of men roam the streets of Tehran at night carrying sticks and chains with which to attack anyone who does not share their belief in Islam? Do you not care that Rafsanjani and others of Ali Eskandarian’s friends do nothing to stop this? You cannot wear shorts in Iran like you are wearing today in this nice quiet café. You cannot drink the alcohol such as you and your friend Mr Eskandarian enjoyed today at lunch. Perhaps you like to go to parties with the women in your group on the beach? There is nothing wrong with this. But if you were a young man living in Iran today, you would be forbidden to attend such parties. Your sisters cannot wear make-up, they cannot own perfume. Is one of them your girlfriend? She could not be seen with you in public or she would be whipped, humiliated, while you, Adam, would be made an example of. Even western music, such as we can hear now in this café, is outlawed. People must listen to Madonna or Bruce Springsteen or Elton John with headphones, in the privacy of their houses. And they must hope that their records and tapes are not discovered by the Revolutionary Guard.’
Kite was still processing what Bijan had said about alcohol. Such as you and your friend enjoyed today at lunch. He must have been sitting in the brasserie and watching them on the beach. Bijan might now follow him back to the villa in order to discover where he was staying. Christ, maybe he was part of an exile group targeting Eskandarian.
‘How would you feel if you were taken from this place, right here and now, and whipped in public, in front of all these people, just for sleeping with an unmarried woman or for wearing the clothes you are wearing, that T-shirt?’ Bijan grabbed Kite’s wrist and gestured outside at the crowded street. ‘Would you like to be stoned to death in public? Your dead naked body hung from a crane for your friends and family to see? To serve as a warning to others?’
Kite said: ‘Of course not’ but Bijan was only listening to himself.
‘This is the reality of modern Iran, my friend. This is the reality of the regime Mr Eskandarian serves, enriching them, enriching himself. There is no democracy.’
Kite still had most of his coffee to drink and a half-smoked cigarette tilted into the ashtray in front of him. He wanted to stand up and leave but had to be sure that Bijan would not follow him.
‘Let me tell you, Adam,’ the Iranian continued. The scar on his lip seemed to have become more pronounced as he spoke. ‘Then you can decide whether to believe me or not. Perhaps you think I am a mad person walking the streets of Cannes, stopping Scottish tourists in cafés and holding them prisoner with my tongue.’ Bijan flashed him a gap-toothed grin, a strip of silver fillings visible in the lower recesses of his mouth. ‘I myself am a marked man. Why? Because I oppose the regime. These men of God in Tehran, these supposed men of peace, send their Revolutionary Guards to France to hunt down and kill men like me. We are not allowed to organise peaceful opposition to our own government. We are not allowed to wish for a better country. This is the extent of their paranoia, of their murderous intentions. Bombs have been planted in cars in France. My comrades have been beheaded. Think about this, Adam. A man in his own home forced to kneel by the scum of the Revolution, sometimes in front of their wives, their children, and their heads taken off by a sword.’
Kite wanted to believe that what Bijan was telling him was pure fantasy, but there was such intensity, such range and detail in his accusations, that he could only assume that at least part of it was true.
‘That sounds horrific,’ he said, because there was a look in Bijan’s eye which demanded a response. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I am sorry, too, my friend. Any former servant of the shah is a legitimate target, yet Ali Eskandarian, and scum like him, can take their vacations in France, drink alcohol, sleep with young women, and they will not be touched. Why? Because they help to make secret deals with America, they buy their arms and their weapons. In return, the regime gets rich and turns a blind eye. You know of your writer, Mr Rushdie?’
‘Of course,’ Kite replied, not wanting to talk about Rushdie but to hear more about the nature of Eskandarian’s relationship with the American government. Was Bijan referring to Iran-Contra, which Peele had spent a morning explaining to him in Hampstead, or to something else entirely?
‘Rushdie also faces death, but at least he has the protection of the British government. At least he has the SAS or the MI5 to watch over him, to move him safely from house to house. We, on the other hand, can do nothing to escape the executioners sent
