The primary objective, p.4
The Primary Objective, page 4
They were now picking up speed as they started up the slope away from the river. The fields at this point were not only cultivated but had clear boundaries, which acted as a stopping point for the team to get together. After the completion of the third field boundary, Fawaz signalled the group to come together and spoke in Farsi for the first time. Jack realised his colleagues had a quicker understanding than him and he became the one to have to ask him to repeat certain comments and speak more slowly.
Fawaz was happy to oblige but Dave wasn’t impressed.
“You’re going to have to do better than this in the next few days,” he said.
“I don’t want the locals getting any more suspicious than necessary.”
Jack then silenced him by saying, “I wonder if they will spot a Mancunian accent?”
Their methodical movement on the edge of cultivated fields had brought them within less than a hundred metres of the first building that could be realistically described as being at the very edge of town. It was two in the morning and all was quiet. The team was now assembled, with full kit, in a boundary ditch. This was the point that Fawaz would continue the journey alone. Leaving his backpack with the others, Fawaz now climbed out of the trench and started walking up the track towards the town. In rough, stained grey trousers, soiled boots with worn stitching on the right sole, old shirt with a slight tear in the left sleeve and a heavy waistcoat, Fawaz looked like he had just finished checking the abundant quantities of pomegranate in the next field. Although the look was right for the occasion, his timing gave the wrong impression: that he was about to announce his arrival to the first person he met in his hometown. His progress was followed closely by Dave with his field glasses. Fawaz had arrived at the first barn door. From the viewer’s point of view, Fawaz seemed to be leaning into the door and applying one, two, three major thrusting movements before the door opened. Fawaz slipped inside and the door closed behind him.
Given the tensions of the night and the journey, sitting in a hole in a field on the edge of a nondescript border town in north-west Iran seemed like an anticlimax, but that feeling started to change as a result of an inordinately long wait before Fawaz emerged. His body language seemed more positive than his cautious departure. He came back to the group to collect his backpack and signalled them to follow. This was undoubtedly the scariest moment to date, obliging them to break cover and walk openly towards the barn, all the time trying not to make too much noise with their heavy boots. One by one, they slipped through the door within a door, which took them into the barn and the place that would act as their base in the days ahead.
The small electric strip light in the barn gave the impression that the place was much bigger than it probably was. They seemed to be close to a wall of straw bales that rose from floor to ceiling. Its width was accentuated by a mezzanine, again packed with neatly stacked straw bales. Access to the mezzanine was by way of a small ladder which looked flimsy enough to collapse if a man put any weight on it. Further, looking at the top, it appeared to go nowhere as it was surrounded by more bales.
“Winter here can be tough. My family have another three barns getting filled with winter feed so we can keep our livestock in here and not offer a takeaway service to the local wolf population,” Fawaz joked.
Given the circumstances, Jack would have been forgiven for not detecting the irony of the comment. Fawaz then proceeded to test the strength of the ladder by climbing it, with the backpack on. Although the act of getting to the mezzanine was swift enough, what to do upon arrival became a bit more complicated. The principal gap between the bales was wide enough for a person moving sideways to get through, but not someone with one of their heavy-duty bags. Momentarily disappointed, Fawaz dropped his pack and pressed himself into the space. In the dim light, he disappeared from view.
“Hey, guys, if we can shift around some of these bales this will be ideal for us – come up and take a look.”
Two hours later, the team had succeeded in rearranging the mezzanine to provide a wall on the side facing onto the floor of the barn but opening up a good space hidden from view. Further, Fawaz remembered there was a hatch at the rear of the mezzanine for dropping bales out directly to the field behind. It looked like an ideal site for an operational base.
Dawn was now breaking, and Dave wanted the team to get some rest – all except Fawaz. Now changed for a third time, Fawaz came down the ladder with a small suitcase looking like he had just stepped off the night bus from Tehran. It was due into Sami in around half an hour and he expected to be there to mark his arrival.
Although all had worked so far, this was the point when trust between the newly acquainted team would come into its own. Fawaz would be seen to arrive in the town and could be expected to stay in his parents’ house nearby. He would have to work out how he would keep in touch with the rest of the team in the barn. Dave shadowed Fawaz to the barn door, looking out to see what the first response was to the local cocks crowing. All was still quiet. Dave let Fawaz out into the street. Fawaz locked the outside door of the barn and Dave looked back at the mezzanine to check that signs of the occupants were hidden. The elevated vantage point offered good sightlines to the door and darkness to assist their cover. At this stage, one person would be retained to manage the watch. Fawaz had been quick to point out that the ground floor would be used during the day and the team should be mindful that people and animals would be coming out of the barn at will. But, for now, it was important to rest and come to terms with their surroundings.
Fawaz had not been back to Sami for some years, but, as he moved cautiously from street to street and reacquainted himself with his surroundings, he realised little had changed. Rather than going the most direct route to the bus stop in the town square, he had opted to keep to side alleys, where his presence was unlikely to attract attention. His journey took him close to his destination, where an old acacia tree provided cool cover against the sun’s first rays of the morning. As he approached, he heard a dog barking from the other side of the wall, followed by a muffled shout and a slamming of an upstairs shutter. The first business of the day was getting under way as farmers started bringing produce into the local market – some with the modern workhorses of the locality, Toyota Hilux flatbeds, or, in some cases, with more traditional horses and carts. Slowly, and almost methodically, the din of street business began as the arrivals set up their stalls. Of the locals, the first to open up was the town’s café, anxious to catch the other traders offering the first sales of the day. Keeping his distance, Fawaz leaned on the corner with a Russian cigarette – the kind which acted as a calling card to the locals that its owner was involved in the smuggling business – something which in the locality would be regarded as a badge of honour and worthy of respect. Importantly, if challenged, it would save him long bullshit explanations about why he had suddenly decided to return home.
Seven o’clock in the morning. The overnight bus from Tehran was late. Given the distance, it was not a surprise, more an inconvenience. He waited some more, during which time a military pick-up arrived with soldiers keen to ensure they had first pick of the traders’ bargains and some headed over to the café to place their breakfast orders. The pace of activity was now growing as mothers came out on the streets to escort their kids to the nearby school and stop to chat and find out the latest gossip.
He shook his head knowingly – life in Ibrahim Sami had certainly changed in recent years due to the military presence and growing population, but, to his eyes, this was based on the same timeless patterns of behaviour that he remembered from his youth.
And then the shouting and horn blaring and about a dozen adolescents on mopeds started kicking up the dust. This was followed by the outline of a coach which came into view through the ensuing cloud. Not bad, only about fifty minutes late. The bus ground to a halt in the market square, not in any prescribed position but in a place of the driver’s selection. However awkward for the traders, this bus stopped right next to them, adding to the general cacophony of noise, people and animals – both pets and others, some in cages likely to be destined for the cooking pot. The bus door opened, spilling yet more people into the throng. This was the moment Fawaz had waited for. Approaching from under the acacia tree, no one spared him any attention as he mixed with the locals. He made a point of singling out the bus driver, who, clearly tired and wanting to get into the café himself, had jumped out to unlock the luggage compartment below at the back. As he dutifully attempted to remove bags, he was pushed out of the way by several of his passengers, anxious to grasp their possessions and greet their loved ones. By being engulfed by this swirling chaotic mass of humanity, most observers would not doubt he had just arrived in town on the bus.
He did not have to try to be recognised.
“Fawaz, is it you? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?”
Almost immediately he had to drop his case and use both hands to steady the impact of his younger sister, Shimina, who jumped into his arms.
“I can’t believe it – Mum and Dad have just sent me out to buy bread and now you’re here! Have they just tricked me into meeting you? I bet they have known for days, weeks, that you were coming back…”
Fawaz managed the moment well.
“I just got fed up in Tehran and decided to come home,” he said.
“Oh yes? And what about your girlfriend?”
He looked surprised.
“What you mean is: you have had enough of student life and fallen out with her.” Shimina was confident she had the story. Fawaz didn’t do anything to make her change her mind. “Oh, Faz.” She used his nickname. “Mum will be thrilled. How long are you back for?”
“Not sure, really – just want to get back to normal life for a while and clear my head.”
“Dad will be pleased – he’s getting on with the harvest now and I know he’ll want some help. Sod the shopping; we must go and see them now,” she added, putting her arm firmly through his and walking purposefully back to their house.
Alternate Fridays were always hectic from Jamshid’s point of view. He had to get his weekly report through to the Transport Ministry, get to the airport for the flight north, get to his parents’ home, then to evening prayers and, finally, the obligatory family meal. The weekend would involve a visit to his local sports club to play football and the regular visit to his mother’s tea house. Despite the routine pattern of proceedings, it was no surprise that the visit to the tea house was at the back of the list. He really wasn’t interested in meeting the daughters of the city’s intellectual elite, but neither did he wish to endure his mother’s constant nagging. After all, if he fell out with his mum, who would do his laundry? The most bearable way of dealing with the tea house ordeal was to ensure it was preceded by the football, which would at least provide the opportunity to exorcise the demons of the week.
Normally the football would happen in the local sports hall, but this particular week it was no more than a kickabout on disused tennis courts a couple of blocks from his parents’ house. The result was that he didn’t have to get his formal team strip on (red shirts and black shorts) but could turn up in his standard casual wear (white T-shirt and jeans). The football was a loose arrangement with local lads – some, who he had known for years, but others who were new to him. It was a mixed bunch – in terms of age and background. Everyone from a couple of old schoolfriends, the local baker, a train driver and even an electrical engineer. Apart from playing the games, there was also plenty of opportunity to have a chat about… well, anything except politics! Most people understood, particularly in Tehran, that discussion of politics was dangerous at the best of times and sharing a discourse in a public place was definitely not the thing to do.
This particular week, the football was different. Different venue, more players and fewer he recognised. As for the game, it was farcical – players of different ages and standards, horrendous tackling, non-existent refereeing and an incoherent, rag-tag partisan crowd, not supporting a team but individual players. At the end of the game, Jamshid estimated the score at 11–8 but no one was quite sure and, in the end, nobody seemed to care. Players sat on the ground sharing cans of cola and talking through the highlights of the game from their own points of view – a series of conversations as diverse and unruly as the game itself.
It was Jamshid’s turn to enter the aimless banter, discussing a late tackle that had robbed him of a certain goal, as he saw it. As he talked, his eyes moved to the middle distance and settled on a woman laughing with two or three others on the far side of the pitch. Whatever point he thought he was making at that moment fell away as he stood, hesitated and sprinted towards her.
“Mahta? Remember me from the restaurant in Bandar Abbas? I was going to call…”
Clearly unimpressed with having her conversation interrupted, she made him wait before engaging.
She looked blank. “No, sorry, should I know you?”
“We were in the Apadana restaurant in Bandar on Thursday night…”
The two girls with her started to look hostile. She said: “Look I am really sorry, but I don’t know you and I’ve certainly not been – where did you say? – in Bandar Abbas, wherever that is,” and started to laugh – a signal taken up by her friends.
He mumbled an apology and walked away… after three paces, he turned to look at her once more and knew he was not mistaken.
Returning home, he showered and set off for the tea house, reflecting on the strange encounter and mentioned it to his father.
“Don’t worry, son; that’s the way women are. I remember your mother being difficult when I first met her. She should have been a lawyer – our courtship was like negotiating a contract; that was how she got her clauses into me.” He laughed.
“Now, talking of girls, Mrs Alrakahthan is coming to see your mother this afternoon with her daughter Hanah – well, if I was your age that would give me something to think about. She is in advertising or something and I hear getting a date with her can be difficult. She has a brother, Hasan, who used to come along to my tutorials. I’m not sure what happened to him after university – there was talk of him going to Harvard – but you and Mum will probably find out. You see, your mother knows how to go about fixing these things.”
His dad was right – Hanah was indeed a looker. A tall willowy figure with a bright patterned headscarf and a smile too wide to get through the door. Jamshid recognised her type – used to being the centre of attention and probably high maintenance.
Definitely with the wow factor, she reminded him of a baklava, the enticing honey-covered pastry – so often the best accompaniment to afternoon tea – attractive to look at, sensational to taste, but the ability to make you sick if you had too much of it.
The one surprise in the fragrant Hanah’s presentation: she seemed to be enthralled to her mother.
After the usual pleasantries and small talk, the dialogue withered as the respective mothers took over and their conversation became transactional.
“Hanah and Jamshid would be great together, Mrs Alrakahthan.”
“I’ll have a word with my husband, and we’ll see if we can arrange Jamshid to be transferred to Tehran.”
Alarm bells started ringing in Jamshid’s mind from this snippet of conversation and it was time to bring this chat to a close.
“Don’t you get tired of being told what to do?” he said to Hanah, but without waiting for her reply he leaned across and gave her a long and unhurried kiss. The tactic produced mixed results. The target of his open affection was shocked, resisted but then responded. The respective mothers looked disbelievingly and were appalled in equal measure.
He too was surprised, nervous and exhilarated. It was a deliberately outrageous action designed to negate any cosy matriarchal scheme.
Surprised, as he was not naturally an impetuous, instinctive person; nervous, because he knew his flagrant move was at best impolite and at worst an assault in public; and exhilarated because, actually, he quite enjoyed it.
However, now was not the time to hang around.
“Great to meet you, Hanah, Mrs Alrakahthan, I hope I will have the pleasure of meeting you again.”
And to his mother: “I’m sorry, Mum, but I’ve got to leave. There are a lot of things I need to sort out before I go back to Bandar – see you at home later.”
Jamshid didn’t wait to continue the conversation and couldn’t be witness to the reaction he left behind.
His first urgent appointment was two blocks away at the twenty-four-hour fried chicken shop.
Ibrahim Sami was a relatively small rural community in a distant corner of north-west Iran few knew of or cared about. Although it was close to an international border, relations with Azerbaijan were basically good and until recently the area was not militarised. Locals were not sure what had led to the change of circumstance that had resulted in the construction of an army base nearby, combined with a garrison and airfield, but hadn’t felt especially hostile to the prospect. To the casual observer, on the surface, life in Sami hadn’t changed that much. The area’s communications were limited to satellite systems, but the military kept a low profile. Their arrival had led to the emergence of a kind of “under the counter” cottage industry, with a number of local entrepreneurs starting to invest in shops selling Western-branded outdoor clothing and footwear, bargain designer fragrances, music and entertainment DVDs. The baker’s café, the launderette and the general store selling food had expanded, a Chinese restaurant had opened and the daily market provided the focus of day-to-day activity, filling the air with the scent of spices and cooked meats. But the regular appearance of off-duty soldiers provided other opportunities for commercial activity such as the guest house, ironically situated next to the mosque, where, for a fee, alcohol was available and it was rumoured the company of attractive women (mostly smuggled in from Pakistan so it was said) could be found. The local entrepreneurs had been smart: they kept their new wealth hidden behind closed doors. It was not in their interest to cause a problem or have the eye of the state staring into their affairs.
