In a moment of distilled paranoia, Kite wondered if Bijan suspected that he was working for British intelligence. He was not familiar with the name Shahpour Bakhtiar, nor did he understand why Bijan assumed that he might be. The idea that MI6 were secretly siding with the government in Tehran against the exile community struck him as illogical, but he supposed anything was possible in the looking-glass world into which Peele and Strawson had thrust him.
‘I don’t know anything about any of this,’ he said.
‘Of course you don’t,’ Bijan replied, swallowing his espresso with a concise, practised flick of the wrist. ‘How could you know? But be assured, this is also happening in London. You are an intelligent person who lives his life with people who can eat at the best restaurants, who can afford to take their holidays in the South of France.’
‘With respect, you don’t know anything about me.’
‘Perhaps,’ Bijan replied. ‘And perhaps you do not care, Adam. But maybe you also want to help me.’
Kite realised that an offer of this kind had been brewing for some time, yet the question still caught him off guard.
‘Help you?’ he said. He experienced the disorientating sensation of falling into a trap. If Eskandarian or Abbas had grown suspicious of him and sent Bijan as a test of his loyalty, he must on no account agree to do anything for this man. He must leave the café as soon as possible and return to the beach.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just came here to read my book and have a coffee. I have to be getting back. My friends will be worried.’
To his surprise, Bijan raised no objection and pulled back his chair, allowing Kite the space in which to stand.
‘Of course, Adam,’ he said. ‘I understand. I will pay for your coffee.’
Kite readily accepted the offer, pleased to be released from the conversation, and watched as Bijan secured a ten-franc note under the ashtray.
‘You really don’t need to do that.’
‘It is my pleasure. I just wanted you to know the reality of what is going on in Iran, the reality of the man you play Frisbee with in the sunshine. Thank you for listening to me.’
‘You’ve certainly taught me a lot.’
Kite was almost at the door.
‘Please …’
He turned. Bijan was holding out a piece of paper.
‘Take this.’ The Iranian tried to stuff the piece of paper into Kite’s hand. ‘It is my telephone number. You can call me if you ever want to discuss these matters. I would like the opportunity to speak with Mr Eskandarian. You can make this possible, yes?’
Kite knew that he should keep the telephone number so that Peele could have it checked, but also that he should reject outright any possibility of a meeting or conversation ever taking place. There was still a chance that the whole thing was a charade orchestrated by Abbas to analyse his character, a test cooked up by BOX 88 to make sure that their golden boy was still on the right track.
‘I think it’s very unlikely,’ he said, pocketing the number. ‘I hardly know Mr Eskandarian. He’s friends with my hosts.’
‘Ask him,’ Bijan urged.
‘It was good to meet you,’ Kite replied, backing out of the door. ‘Thank you for the coffee. There’s really nothing I can do for you. I wish you good luck.’
41
Luc had given Jacqui money for a taxi. All the way back to the villa, Kite kept turning around to see if the same cars, the same number plates, kept repeating. If Bijan was following him, he was in trouble.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jacqui asked. It was cramped in the back seat. Xavier was in the front chatting to the driver about Mitterrand. ‘Why do you keep moving around?’
‘Sorry,’ Kite told her. ‘Got a pain in my back. Helps when I twist it out.’
Martha was beside him. She was wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt and smelled of sun cream. There were tiny flakes of dried sea salt on her tanned thighs.
‘How did you hurt it?’ she asked.
‘Frisbee.’
He realised with frustration that the lie would prevent him from going for a run when he got back to the villa. Kite stared out of the window, working out his next move. Abbas already knew that he only ever went for a jog in the morning, not after several hours of swimming and playing Frisbee on a beach. Instead he would write a note to BOX, insert it in a packet of cigarettes, go for a smoke when he got back to the house and dead drop the packet on the wall.
As the driver indicated off the autoroute, Kite again turned in the back seat. Jacqui clicked her tongue. No car had followed them up the ramp. Two miles later, on the access road to the villa, Kite looked again. For theatrical effect, he winced slightly as he twisted. Martha said: ‘Poor you.’ Again there was no sign of a following car. If Bijan, or one of his associates, had attempted to follow the cab, they had surely failed.
‘Have a swim when you get back,’ she suggested. ‘Stretch it out. You’ll feel better.’
‘There’s no time,’
