THIRTY-THREE

Hart and Nalan stood in the entranceway to a shuttered and barred shop. Hart glanced down the passageway between the shops to check if they were being watched or marked out in any way. It was fast becoming a habit. ‘If you go to Iran he will kill you.’

Nalan gave a vehement shake of the head. ‘No. He is not as powerful in Iran as he was in Iraq. There, he is only a servant. Here, he was the master. He says he must tell me something. About my parents. Something I need to know.’

‘You don’t believe him, do you?’

‘Of course not. He is Hassif. Totally evil. But now I know he is in Bukan I have to go. I need to do this.’

Hart put out a hand as if to stay her from leaving for the border at that precise moment. ‘But that’s just what he wants you to do. Can’t you see? You are one of the few remaining eyewitnesses to the crimes he committed. If the International Criminal Court ever gets hold of him, your testimony alone could see him imprisoned for life.’

‘They will never get hold of him. Iran will protect him. He works for them now. I told you this.’

‘Yet another reason why you should not go over there.’

Nalan shook her head. ‘He sent me photographs, John. Of men doing things to my mother. He even knew my phone number to call me. Hearing his voice again on the phone made me go weak with fear. It was as if I was a little child again, back in the prison. I cannot understand this man. His given name, Rahim, means merciful and kind. How could God allow such a man to have a name like his?’

‘God made a mistake in Hassif’s case. A bad one.’

‘No. God is not responsible for filth like Hassif. They create themselves. A man like Hassif manufactures his own destiny. He will answer to God, yes. But that will come later. On this earth I want him to answer only to me.’

Hart watched her for a moment, his eyes travelling over the familiar and yet unfamiliar features. ‘How can you possibly get into Iran?’

‘I am a Kurd. It is easy. I have cousins. Iraqi Kurds travel across the border all the time.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Why should I not be serious?’

Hart burst out laughing. It was neither the time nor the place for levity, but he couldn’t help it. The expression on Nalan’s face when he’d asked her the question had been one of such outraged astonishment that for a moment she had looked like a surprised cat. ‘And me? Can I get into Iran just as easily?’

‘You? No. It would be impossible.’

‘And why, pray?’

‘Now you are not being serious, John. You cannot be seriously asking me this question.’

‘I am. Seriously.’

She touched his arm and they began walking again. Soon they passed into a courtyard in which carpets were draped over frames and laid out flat on the ground, the better to be admired. They both stood looking at one of the carpets. When the shopkeeper came over to see if they wanted to buy it, both smiled and shook their heads simultaneously. The shopkeeper returned to his game of chess.

Nalan turned towards Hart. ‘Any foreigner from the United Kingdom or the United States travelling from Iraq to Iran will be instantly under suspicion of being a spy. The border is very fluid, and many people cross – many, many lorries, and much oil and cement. But few foreigners. And all of these will be in tourist parties, or under special licence, with papers that have already been checked. Visas that have already been issued and certified. It is not a matter here of just turning up at the border and asking to be let through. When they find out you are a journalist—’

‘A photojournalist.’

‘A photojournalist then. To them this will be even worse. Cameras talk. And cameras can record. The Iranian Revolutionary Guards are not stupid. They will soon discover that you were involved in the recent bomb attack—’

‘Innocently involved.’

‘This is irrelevant. You killed a man, John. A man who was possibly Iranian. Or at least trained by the Iranians. Although no one will ever be able to prove this, of course. So they will have you on file already. You will be setting your head in the. . .’ She hesitated. ‘What is it? The French thing they executed people with during the revolution?’

‘The guillotine.’

‘You will be setting your head in the guillotine.’

This time it was Hart who moved Nalan on. They were already being watched by both chess players, and various other of the shopkeepers. Was he becoming unnecessarily paranoid with all this talk of files and spies and police? ‘And illegally? Can one cross the border so that no one knows?’

‘Are we talking about you or me?’ She raised an eyebrow at him until he was forced to nod in affirmation.

‘Me.’

‘You do not speak Farsi, John. You do not even speak Kurdish. You are tall. And blond. And pale. A few days ago your face was on all the news programmes. In the papers. On the Internet. For you it would be suicide.’

‘But is it possible?’

‘Is it possible? Yes. Of course it is possible. People I know do it all the time. But you are not people. You are John Hart the photojournalist. John Hart the British spy. John Hart the Dish of the Day on the Revolutionary Guard menu.’