to escape. There were none. Two gorilla-size men were blocking the doors. I was in their net. I tried to figure out a good legend, fearing that the author’s cover would not hold water. Where had I been during the past six weeks? What did they know about my true identity? Had Hasan Lotfi had me arrested when I failed to deliver? I felt like a trapped animal.
After an hour of driving in utter silence, we entered a small villa on the outskirts of town. Sammy came out of the front door and hugged me.
“What happened?” I asked, still confused. Should I be happy or suspicious?
“Your next-door neighbor was apprehended by VEVAK. I couldn’t come for you, not knowing how much he’d talked. You know, at the hands of VEVAK everyone talks. I figured you’d identify the danger and leave that place. I’m glad you did.”
“What did the neighbor know?”
“Luckily, he only knew that you were hiding at the factory, but didn’t know exactly where, because he wasn’t supposed to know. His duty was to observe the factory and alert us if there was an emergency. Did the VEVAK try to find you there?”
I told him about the strange noises and the note I found. I had to.
“That means he managed to send somebody to warn you,” Sammy said.
“Or maybe he had to tell them about my hideout, and they tried to lure me out.”
“Unlikely,” said Sammy. “If VEVAK were there, they’d come with full brute force and turn the place upside down. But what ever it was, it’s time to move. We think we can whisk you out now. Let me have all your documents; just keep your money.” He handed me a used Armenian identity card with my photo. “Use this only in an emergency-some cop may be stupid enough to accept this as genuine.” He handed me a hat that smelled bad and an ethnic-looking jacket.
“Put them on.”
“What are these?”
“Qashqai clothes,” he said. “We’ll smuggle you over the mountains to Turkey with the help of our Qashqai friends. You must look like them and blend with the others.” Qashqai men wear a typical felt hat with rims considerably raised over the top. The jacket was also typical Qashqai.
I knew from my briefings who the Qashqai were. A semi-nomadic tribe mainly located in Fars Province in southwestern Iran, they were the second largest Turkic group in the country, after the Azerbaijanis.
“Can I trust them to get me safely to Turkey?”
“Of course, they’re very experienced. In the winter they move from the highlands north of Shiraz to the lowlands north of the Persian Gulf, and now they return to the highlands.”
“I’m sure about that, but can I trust them not to turn me in?” I knew loyalties in this part of the world could quickly change.
“They don’t know who you are, and I don’t think they care. They know you’re under our protection, and that’s all that matters.” He smiled. I wasn’t sure I could return the smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sammy drove me to the parking lot next to Tarehbar Square, the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in south Tehran. He stopped next to an old truck and pointed at the driver. “He’ll take you across the border to Turkey. Be prepared for a long ride.”
“How long?”
“A nonstop trip from Tehran to the crossing point to Turkey would take about twenty-four hours, maybe a little longer depending on road conditions, since the snow is melting. But in this case, your entire trip across the border may take four to six days, including stops, because part of the way will be off-road on horse back.”
I looked at the grizzled truck driver standing next to his shabby 1963 Mercedes Benz truck. Its sixteen-foot bed was covered with a canvas tarp with several patches, but new holes were in the making.
“There’s no planned route, because if road conditions, police roadblocks, or the weather change, the driver will look for alternative routes.” Sammy chuckled. “There’s no itinerary of sites to visit or hotel reservations to worry about.”
“Who are these people?” I asked when I saw three men climb into the truck.
“Other passengers he’s smuggling. In fact, it serves our purpose, because you can blend with them.”
“Blend?” I snorted. “I’m fair skinned and six foot four, and they’re dark and a foot shorter. I’ll be the obvious outsider.”
“Not necessarily. We can’t do anything about your height, but your beard and these clothes do a good job of masking your appearance.” He pointed at a short man with a hat similar to mine. He smiled at me. “This is your driver. His name is Kashkuli Buzurg. He’ll take good care of you.” Sammy and the driver exchanged a few sentences.
“What language does he speak?”
“A dialect of Turkish. But like most Qashqais, he also speaks Farsi.”
“And how do I communicate with him?”
“Let this be the least of your concerns. You’ll manage. Use your hands and body language,” Sammy answered.
“When you get closer to the Bazargan border crossing to Turkey, police activity will increase. He’ll use dirt roads to bring you to a Qashqai camp. From there, they’ll take you on horse-back across the Zagros Mountains in western Iran into the vicinity of Dogubayazit, Turkey.”
“The Iranian police and military don’t supervise that border area?” I asked.
“They know that the nomadic Qashqais move their herds twice a year in this area, so the police and army aren’t expected to immediately suspect such movement. The Qashqais summer location is about ten thousand feet above sea level. It’s still cold up there-not all the snow has melted.”
The name “Dogubayazit” sounded familiar. Then I remembered: it was the city next to the Ararat mountain range, where the remains of Noah’s Ark were alleged to have been found. A strange thought passed through my mind. The Titanic was built by professionals, while Noah’s Ark was built by an amateur. Some people believe that a symmetrical, streamlined stone structure near there has the right dimensions and interior configuration, and symmetrically arranged traces of metal, consistent with its being the Ark. Also, anchor stones have been found near there. I always wondered, whenever I was scratching my aching skin in summer mornings spent outside the city, why Noah didn’t let the pair of mosquitoes stay behind and drown. He probably never experienced having a bloodthirsty mosquito in his bedroom at two in the morning that cannot be smashed or cast out. I looked at Sammy and felt a pang for having suspected him. I took a thick stack of U.S. hundred-dollar bills and offered it to Sammy.
“Here, please take it. I can’t thank you enough.”
“No,” he said firmly, pushing my hand away. “You’re very kind, but I can’t take it. Your people are helping us in many ways, and helping you is just a duty of honor for us.”
Sammy shook my hand. “Good luck.” I hugged him. He walked to his car. Thank you very much, I wanted to say again, but he was already out of hearing range.
I climbed into the back of the truck. I sat on a pile of old blankets padded with sheep’s wool, wrapped myself with one, and offered a broad smile to my new travel companions. They nodded and said something I couldn’t understand. So I just nodded back. The engine roared and the truck left the parking lot.
I was troubled by not being able to communicate in any language with the driver or my travel companions. That could be hazardous in case of emergency, when reaction to perils needed to be immediate.
I had to try my best. I blurted out, “Salaam Aleikum” -hello, or peace on you.
“Aleikum Salaam,” they returned the greeting, without the least look of surprise on their faces. “Maen kaemi farsi baelaedaem” -I speak a little Persian. “Haletun chetoreh?” -How are you? They burst into laughter; I guess my accent wasn’t perfect, or maybe not even close. I thanked Erikka in my heart for teaching me these few sentences. Where was she now?
“Aez ashnai tun khosh baek taem” -Nice to meet you! “Saelam ba ba! maenaem, adriyan.”
