Brian looked at his watch and was relieved to note that he had no time to pursue these thoughts as he headed up to the bridge. The Ronald Reagan Carrier Strike Group was taking its turn in the international effort to suppress pirates off the coast of Somalia. The Dulles was scheduled to pull what was essentially sentry duty to keep the problem from escalating. He had planned preliminary briefings on transiting the Strait of Hormuz again, which would be within the next seventy-two hours.
52. The Qanats
“So, if I have this straight, Kharazzi is a horny politician who’s lusting after your body,” Steve said. Steve, Kella, Farah, and Jemshid sat around the dining room table with tea and pastries in the half light of early evening.
Farah’s depression from her meeting with Kharazzi had transformed to fury at his demand. With lightning in her eyes, she said, “I can’t believe the nerve, the total absence of any principles, of morality. He wants me to whore for him before he turns me over to the police.”
She took a breath and added with less fire, “And he requires my answer tomorrow, or he’ll turn us all in to the police,” Farah said, her apologetic gaze resting on Jemshid.
“When can we leave? If we all leave, what is the danger to you from Kharrazi?” Kella asked looking at Jemshid.
“Either we leave tonight,” Steve said, “or we have to do something about Mr. Kharazzi’s mouth,” he looked at Jemshid who took a sip of tea, letting the silence grow. Then, resting his cup on the table, he stood, and walked to the light switch to turn the lights on.
When Jemshid was seated again, he said, “There is no need for violent action, my friends. I have read that Americans are influenced by too many violent movies. Now you, Farah, are also leaning in this direction?”
Quietly, as though deeply examining her own beliefs, Farah said, “At the time, I didn’t know how to react. I was surprised, I really felt extreme hostility. God would have pardoned me, under the circumstances, if...” Her voice trailed off, and she left her thought unspoken.
Jemshid looked at his watch. “Let’s remain calm and speak no more about violence. My son Naurouz will be home soon and he will lead you out. You must leave tonight. Except for Farah, there is no evidence that anyone has been here. I will simply explain to Kharazzi tomorrow that Farah returned to Tehran on the morning bus, and I can deny any knowledge of spies. He will not dare challenge my word.”
Rising, Jemshid told them, “My wife is preparing some food that you can take with you. You will be walking most of the night. Travel light and wear good shoes.”
He paused then added, “My daughter Leila noticed a group of men at the bottom of our road, where it joins with the main road. I don’t know if they are from the government, but they are not wearing uniforms. Maybe they are Kharazzi’s men. He is a man who does not like others to say no to him. He would not want to let his prize get away.” He laughed silently. “There is nothing to do now until Naurouz arrives. Get your rest. You will need it.”
“What about you?” Steve asked. “Are you certain that Kharazzi will not denounce you and get you arrested?”
“I don’t think so,” Jemshid assured him. “We have known each other too many years. He knows that putting me on trial might surface many things of which he is not proud.”
To answer Steve’s skeptical look, he added, “My house is surrounded by roving patrols and sensors that we ordered from Israel. We may look rustic, and we are I’m happy to say, but we are not defenseless.” He looked pleased as a boy with a new electric train.
How many more layers were there in Jemshid’s complex life?
* **
Two hours later, they met again. Kella had sent a short message, now that their hiding place was all but revealed, informing CIA Headquarters of their impending departure, of the Kharazzi issue, and that Steve’s photo was in the paper below the caption, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
In the dining room, Jemshid introduced them to a bald, clean-shaven man. “This is my son Naurouz,” he said. “He is named for a Zoroastrian holiday, which has become the Iranian holiday for the new year.”
Naurouz was shorter and stockier than his father. His smile announced that he looked forward to leading this escape and evasion attempt with people he didn’t know and for which he would not be rewarded; on the contrary, failure meant death. His hooded eyes, Steve noted, lent ambiguity to his cheerful countenance.
Thanks for your willingness to help us,” he said. “Your entire family has been hospitable to us, and was a great treat.”
Naurouz laughed. In basic English, he said, “Whatever my cousin Yazdi wants is good, no? Now you want the plan, yes? It is to leave immediately through the qanat to get beyond the city limits. The objective is Shiraz, four hundred and fifty kilometers.”
“Oh yes,” Kella said, “the underground aqueducts.”
“Kharazzi is a big investor in qanats,” Jemshid said. “Tonight you will use one that irrigates his properties.”
“You are about to become experts on the qanats.” Naurouz added. “According to legends, there is a treasure at the source of every qanat, and one day a year the largest fish in each qanat wears a golden crown borrowed from this treasure hoard. Maybe we’ll find it,” he suggested cheerfully. “Ready?”
They said their goodbyes to Jemshid and Maryam and followed Naurouz to a back door where he spoke to Leila briefly. He looked back at them
