Chapter Twenty-six

 

 

Somewhere in Iran

 

Jack slid through the first few meters trying to use the dead man’s body to clear the path. At some point, they hit a sharp rock, and the dead man’s body spun away. Jack’s hand had a death-like grasp on the pistol’s grip. He rolled over sandy rocks and through thick bushes. He thought he heard gunshots from atop the slope. Jack couldn’t see anything because of the darkness around him and his cartwheeling.

He tried to protect his face, but there wasn’t much he could do. Branches scraped his face and arms, but he began to slow down. Jack tried to plant his hands, elbows, or feet somewhere, anywhere to stop his fall.

He slid another ten meters or so, before his feet caught on a couple of rocks. He rolled onto his back and stopped sliding. The dead gunman’s body slid farther down until it was caught in the thick bushes.

Jack drew in a deep breath and looked upward. He could see nothing, but Farahani and the driver were still up there. Jack wasn’t sure if they’d venture down to find him, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility. I’ve got to get out of here.

He took a quick inventory of himself. He was bleeding from the left side of his face, and his jacket and pants were torn in a few places. His arms, shoulders, and the banged-up leg were burning in pain, but nothing felt broken or out of joint. The top of his left shoulder was bleeding, but he guessed it was a flesh wound, considering the small amount of pain and blood.

Jack cocked the pistol, a PC-9 ZOAF, an Iranian knockoff of the SIG Sauer P226, and slid down toward the dead gunman. He went quickly through the man’s suit pockets. He collected a cellphone, which he was able to access by using the dead man’s thumbprint. Jack also found a wallet with the dead man’s ID and a wad of cash. He took everything and continued down the slope.

He had just come to a break in the foliage when powerful headlights fell upon him. Everything around him turned bright. A bullet zipped past his head. Another one struck next to his feet, lifting dirt from the bedrock.

Jack crouched behind the shrubs and fired through the foliage. One of his bullets hit paydirt and blinded one of the headlights. The second struck the SUV’s grille.

Farahani or the driver—or perhaps both of them—returned fire. Jack crawled backward, hoping, praying none of the bullets would hit him. He moved about twenty meters, before he reached the bottom of the ravine. The second headlight had grown dimmer, but the Iranians could still see him.

A couple of rounds thumped against one of the rocks jutting out of the ground. Jack tried to run, but his feet sank into sand and shale. He hurried his steps and hid behind a couple of boulders. Then he continued through a narrow pass.

With a sudden shaft of moonlight, he guided his steps as cautiously as possible. He slowed down, trying to make sense of where he was going. He took a left turn around a cluster of rocks and crouched behind them. Jack remembered that he needed to change the settings on the dead gunman’s phone, so that it would no longer ask for his fingerprint as the access code.

Once he’d taken care of that, Jack listened for a long moment. No noises or shouts came from behind him or atop the slope. He knew he couldn’t expect the Iranians to have given up on him. Jack could imagine Farahani shouting orders on the phone for more men so that they could start the hunt for the runaway agent. Soon enough, the whole area would be crawling with MOIS and IRGC guards. I’m not going to be around for that.

He stood up and began to scale the slope. This area had more foliage, so he used the branches to climb faster and hide among the shrubs. Once in a while he waited and listened. Nothing but night noises in the wilderness. The wind rustled with the shrubs. Or perhaps it was animals scurrying away, awake and afraid because of Jack. They’re just like me, he thought, running for their lives.

He continued to climb as fast as he could. His entire body hurt as if he had been run over by a train, but he couldn’t stop. Not until he had reached the top.

When he got near the top of the slope, he stopped and listened. No noises. No shouts. He glanced at the cellphone. The clock showed 4:45. Soon, it will be morning. I should be able to hitch a ride.

He kept walking along the side of the road. The night was cold, but the adrenaline rushing through his body kept him warm. He removed his shirt and used the inside of the back to wipe the blood off his face and the top of his shoulder as much as he could. He didn’t want to scare off a potential good soul who’d agree to give him a ride.

He walked for a couple of minutes and heard an engine rumble. He looked over his shoulder with anxiety. It was a small black sedan. As it drew nearer, Jack waved a reluctant hand.

The sedan didn’t stop.

Jack shrugged. He didn’t blame the old man behind the wheel. What were the odds that a decent man would be venturing this far into the mountains and have such a disheveled, scary look?

The second vehicle, a silver SUV, also didn’t stop. This one was driven by a middle-aged man, who gave Jack a long curious gaze. Jack waved enthusiastically, but the man didn’t even slow down.

Jack sighed. He felt he’d likely reach Marand on foot before someone picked him up. Then he frowned. Farahani or his thugs would sooner or later drive in this direction. I’d better find a ride and soon.

He thought about hijacking the next vehicle, but the plan could backfire. His best bet was to convince someone to drive him away from this place, toward Marand, if possible.

He walked for another five minutes or so. The road formed a big S-shaped turn. Jack glanced over his shoulder every twenty seconds or so. He didn’t want to miss a vehicle whose driver would be reluctant to back up. Or worse, miss the Iranians looking for him.

The next vehicle was a grayish van that had seen better days. Jack waved and took a couple of steps onto the road. He was growing tired of being ignored. The van slowed down, but Jack couldn’t see the driver’s face because of the dark. He put on his best smile and waved again.

The van came to a slow stop a few meters away from him.

Jack hurried, excited that the van had stopped but also with a certain amount of concern about who might be behind the wheel. He kept the cocked pistol ready inside his right pocket and turned his left side slightly toward the van as he approached.

The front passenger rolled down the window, and Jack glanced into the eyes of a young, bearded man in his early twenties. He had thick curly black hair, large brown eyes, and a beak-like nose. The driver was a man of about the same age as the passenger, but with a buzz cut, a goatee beard, and a black earring. Before they could say anything, Jack said, “Salâm. Halet chetore?” Hello. How are you?

Those were some of the few words he knew in Persian.

“Salâm,” replied the passenger in a deep voice. Then he rattled off a string of words.

Jack smiled and waved his left hand. “No, no, sorry. I don’t speak Persian.”

The driver gave Jack a look of distrust. “You American?” he said in broken English.

Jack shook his head. “Canadian. I was hiking around the area, and I fell. I injured my leg.” He lowered his head toward his left leg. “And my shoulder. And my face, of course.”

The passenger nodded at Jack, then said something to the driver, who returned a headshake and a few words in a harsh tone. He peered at Jack and said, “Hiking? This is no hiking area.”

“No? It’s so beautiful. You guys don’t hike?”

“We camp and fish,” replied the passenger.

The driver tapped the passenger on the arm, and they exchanged a few more words.

Jack said nothing while they seemed to argue for a few seconds whether to pick up the stranger. The driver looked at Jack and asked, “Your backpack. Where is it?”

“I ditched it,” Jack said in a low, warm voice. “I drank all the water; ate all the food. It was useless. Can you take me to Marand?” he asked in a hurried tone. “Please. I’ll pay you. I have money.” He pulled out his hand from the right pocket and showed them the Iranian tomans he had taken from the dead gunman’s wallet.

“Marand? You stay there?”

Jack nodded.

“Where?”

“Grand Hotel.” He had no idea if there was a Grand Hotel in Marand or not, but he remembered seeing one in Van and another in Özalp. They seemed to be everywhere.

The driver’s eyes gleamed with distrust as he peered into Jack’s face. Jack felt as if he was being scrutinized by Farahani. The driver asked, “You have friend at hotel?”

Jack shook his head. “I travel alone.” He stepped closer to the door and offered the money to the passenger. “Please. It’s all I’ve got.”

He was telling the truth, and the amount was generous, even by Western standards.

The passenger took it and began to flip through the wad of crumpled banknotes.

Jack knew he had them by the way the driver was looking at the money. The agent waited until the passenger was done counting and asked, “So, we good?”

The driver hesitated one more second, then took the money from the hands of the passenger. “Come,” he told Jack and shoved the money inside one of his blue jacket pockets.

Jack slid open the door. There were a lot of camping supplies in the back: a tent that wasn’t folded properly, sleeping bags, backpacks, empty cans of pop and water bottles, and food wrappings. He pushed some of those to the back and sat behind the passenger. “What are your names?”

The driver hesitated for a moment and said, “Ali. He is Mostafa.”

“Good to meet you.” Jack offered his hand to Mostafa, who gave it a firm, but nervous shake.

Ali put the van into gear and drove slowly at first, then picked up speed.

“What is name?” Mostafa asked Jack.

“Liam Mills,” Jack said in his best honest voice. “Where did you guys camp?”

Mostafa turned in his seat. “Marakan. Two hours away or so.”

“Good time?”

Mostafa nodded. “It was fine.”

“How long until we’re in Marand?”

“Twenty minutes or so. If roadblocks, longer.”

Jack frowned. If there were checkpoints, the guards might want to check his ID. He had none.

The dead gunman’s phone rang. Jack pulled it out and looked at the screen. He couldn’t tell the name of the person calling, as it was written in Persian squiggly characters. The phone rang again, but Jack didn’t pick up.

Ali said, “No answer?”

Jack nodded. “I know who it is. My girlfriend. She always calls me at the oddest hours. I told her I’m okay. Do you have a girlfriend?”

Ali shook his head and gestured toward Mostafa. “He has.”

“So you understand?” Jack said, trying to make a connection with the young man.

Mostafa smiled. “Yes. She calls me many times. Wants to talk all the time.”

Jack looked around the cabin. An air freshener in the shape of a red star was hanging from the rearview mirror along with laminated images of the current and past ayatollahs, the religious leaders of Iran. The van’s movement made the freshener spin around. Jack saw the iconic picture of Ernesto Che Guevara, the prominent figure of the Cuban communist revolutionary. The image—held as the symbol of freedom, or anarchy, or revolution, depending on who wore the image—sparked a semi-crazy idea in Jack’s mind. He tossed one of the backpacks onto the floor behind the driver’s seat and moved closer to the middle of the backseat. “Hey, pretty cool you have Che there.” He said in a cheerful tone. “The freedom hero. You guys love freedom, right?”

Ali responded with a noncommittal shrug.

Mostafa said, “Che is good guy. Strong. Free.”

“And how do you feel about Iran and the current state?”

Jack knew he was pushing the envelope. He had just met these people, and he didn’t even know if their names were real. But it was worth a try.

Ali looked over his shoulder and lifted an eyebrow. “We love our country and our leaders. We are strong and free.” He gave Mostafa a stern look and touched the ayatollah’s pictures. “We have everything we want. The problem is foreigners who put sanc… sanctions on our country.”

“But what about Che?” Jack asked, undeterred. “What about his revolution?”

“Che loved people. We love people,” Mostafa said. “He did not like when government oppressed people.”

Jack grinned. Am I the only one seeing the irony here? “But Che was a communist. He had no love for religion, whether Christianity or Islam. Che’s religion was the revolution, la revolución. Oh, and he was a Marxist as well.”

Ali waved a dismissive hand. “Government of Iran protects the people from foreigners who come here to cause trouble.” He turned his head and glared at Jack. “You here to cause trouble?”

Jack raised both his hands. “No, man, no trouble. I’m in Iran to hike. I love nature. I love this area, the mountains, the forests, the people. You have such a lovely country.”

Ali nodded slowly, but the look of suspicion remained on his face. He turned around slowly and looked through the windshield.

Jack heaved a small sigh of relief. This isn’t going to work, he thought. These guys aren’t going to help me. Not Ali, anyway. And Mostafa, he doesn’t seem like he wants to make waves either. He shook his head. I’ve got to do this by myself. You can do this, Jack. You escaped the Iranians. You can surely do this.

He sat back and thought about his next steps. His right hand went to the pistol in his pocket. I have the gun and the phone. I know Bhada is in Marand. But where? And for how long?

He tried to formulate a plan as the van picked up speed. The first daylight swam around the van, and he could see more of the hillside. They had left the mountains behind. The van drove by a gas station and what looked like a mill appeared to his left. Then they came to a couple of roadside restaurants, and a large sign informing them they were coming to a town or a village. Jack wanted to ask about the name, but he thought the question might raise more doubts in the Iranians’ minds.

The van went through a second small town that was just waking up. Vans and sedans, along with people, were going about their business through the crooked streets and narrow sidewalks. When they came to the edge of town, just past a used truck dealership, Jack saw a checkpoint coming up. A couple of military trucks of a forest camouflage pattern were on one side, and a black SUV was on the other. Two soldiers in army fatigues similar to the pattern of the trucks and brandishing rifles were standing near the side of the road by the SUV. One of them stepped onto the road and gestured for the van to stop.

Jack froze. He leaned closer to Ali and said in a low voice, “They can’t know about me.”

“What?” Ali shouted back.

“Keep your voice down,” Jack said slowly without a trace of panic. “I’m a foreigner without an ID. That looks bad.”

Mostafa swung around. His nostrils flared, and his eyes lit up with suspicion. “Who are you?”

Ali began to slow down. “Your ID at hotel. You said your ID at hotel,” he shouted.

“Shhhh.” Jack put a finger to his mouth. He slid the pistol out of his pocket, cocked it in a swift move, and showed it to Ali.

He recoiled at the sight and stepped on the brakes.

Mostafa’s jaw dropped.

Jack said, “Keep going and stay calm. If they find out about me, I’m going to kill you both. If I fail, which I doubt, they’ll arrest you and me. I’ll tell them you smuggled me from across the border with Turkey.”

Mostafa said, “We did nothing—”

Ali cut him off with a string of words in Persian.

They sounded to Jack like curses, but he couldn’t be sure. He said, “Give them no reason to be suspicious. Tell them we’re friends, we all went camping, and we’re going home.”

The van was now about twenty steps away from the soldier.

Ali seemed to be swearing again, then he drew in a deep breath. He said something in a low but sharp tone to Mostafa, who gave a quick nod.

The soldier kept gesturing with his hand.

Ali slowed down and came to a stop on the road.

Jack rammed the pistol into Ali’s side. “Make no mistakes, or you’re dead.”

Ali grunted.

He rolled the window down and looked at the soldier, a bearded man with a fierce expression on his angular face. Ali spoke in a low voice of deference, handing the soldier what Jack assumed was the driver’s license or paperwork related to the vehicle. The soldier studied them for a long moment, then walked slowly and purposefully toward Jack.

Jack lowered the gun to the floor and slid it underneath the mat. He avoided staring directly in the soldier’s watchful eyes. The soldier walked around the back of the van and completed a full circle. He exchanged a few more words with Ali in a harsh tone, and Ali gave a series of nods. The soldier handed back the paperwork to Ali and gestured for them to move along.

Jack retrieved his pistol. “What did he say?” he asked in a low voice as Ali rolled up the window and started the van.

“We are okay,” Ali replied in a dry voice. He coughed and repeated, “We are okay.”

Jack nodded, but the look of doubt remained on his face. He hadn’t understood a word of their conversation. What if Ali had talked and had given up Jack? Jack shook his head slowly. No, the soldier wouldn’t have let us go. That was the best place to stop us.

He turned his head and saw the soldier had leveled his rifle at the van.

Jack lowered his head and shouted, “Get down. Down!”