My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (38 page)

The Black Mercedes travelled through the Iranian streets and passed the day to day hustle and bustle of usual street life. Cafés and markets, shops and general businesses.

The Iranian driver turned and gestured with his hands left and right out of the window and towards the windscreen. He looked at Siamak on the passenger seat next to him.

"No revolution. No demonstrations. No displays of ill treatment. Not one single person holding up a board saying 'Down with the USA'. Everything the same as it always was, so why on bastard Western news channels do they show pictures of fires, crowds of civil unrest and a call for our leader to be removed? I tell you why. Because it is fake. It is fake and we have to prepare for an invasion, my friend. I've studied this. It's propaganda and is a total psy-op. It's a psychological operation. Seriously. Why remove Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? We have schools and we have great surgeons and doctors and teachers. We also have the oil, my friend. It's another oil war and a chance to put in one of their loyal Western puppets again. The person in the trunk will change things. He's, how you say? A bargaining tool."

Siamak managed a smile, looking out of the window, squinting at the brilliant whiteness caused by the sunshine beyond.

It was daybreak over the Iranian sands of Kavir-e Lut. The desert blanket rolled on for what appeared to be forever in the south-eastern Province of Kerman. The crescent-like hills, known as barchans, and the leafy heaps called nebkas were natural relics. It was a tranquil place, yet very much a place of loneliness.

The gleaming black Mercedes S Class scrolled across the invisibly marked-out road. The heat rippled upwards where the ground met the sky and it distorted everything in sight. The vehicle's bonnet soaked up the rays of the sun. The bluest of skies reflected within the tinted windows, making the occupants feel there was another world beyond the glass: a safer world; a happier world.

The Mercedes slowed to a halt as an older, beaten-up white Mercedes model blocked the route ahead.

An Iranian man, in his early thirties, stood by the rear of the white Merc. The man had three days' worth of stubble on his face. He was a dirty, sweaty man in crisp, modern clothing. He wore a blue and white chequered scarf around his neck. His jeans were either Armani or fake Armani. He narrowed his eyes and put on a pair of shiny gold aviator-style sunglasses, which he kept in the breast pocket of his white cotton shirt. The shirt was absolutely spotless, as if it had just been removed from its packet, or taken off a coathanger at the dry cleaner's. How could somebody have a shirt that clean in a place as scorching hot as this? He wiped his brow with the back of his right hand as his left clutched an AK47 assault rifle.

This was without a doubt the most successful rifle ever produced. One could roll a tank over an AK or even sink it in water and it would still manage to shoot accurately, without fail.

The Iranian man who held this weapon was called Hamid. The boot of the black Mercedes popped open and Hamid scrunched his face up and almost pouted. His eyes narrowed to a squint once more and he glanced around behind him, thumping twice upon the side of his own vehicle.

A second, similarly-dressed Iranian man clambered out of the driver's side of the white Merc. It was Siamak and he adjusted his shirt collar, with the car keys just dangling from one hand as the other shoved a Desert Eagle pistol down the front of his jeans. The gun's handle was clearly visible and looked threatening as he joined Hamid at the boot of the car.

They exchanged a look as Siamak unlocked the boot, turned around and propped his Ray Bans atop his head.

Hamid slung his rifle over his shoulder as Siamak raised the lid. 

The two of them ventured a few sandy feet away from their white vehicle and passed the driver's side of the black, more modern one and went to the boot at the rear. Together they reached into the darkness of the boot and struggled as they pulled out a body wrapped in brown parcel paper. They staggered, turning around with the package, wincing at the weight, as they heaved the bulk into the boot of the white Mercedes with a slump.

The first man, Hamid, hot-footed it back to the black Merc and closed the boot lid, gently tapping the glistening metal. The engine purred and the black vehicle smoothly made a turn, leaving the area. It went back the way it came from, with Hamid and Siamak standing in its tracks in the scorching sun.

The men watched the black shape shimmer in the heat as it slowly disappeared out of view.

Siamak climbed into the driving seat of the white Merc and Hamid shuffled into the passenger seat next to him, slotting his AK47 between his knees.

Siamak inserted his key into the ignition and turned it, bringing the car to life. He lowered his sunglasses, released the handbrake, slammed the car into drive and did exactly that: he drove. Across the sandy terrain, which rose, dipped and weaved without a glimpse of shadow.

Hamid fumbled inside his jean pocket and pulled out a pack of Wrigley's Spearmint gum. He brought the pack to his mouth and took hold of a stick between his teeth, as if it were a cigarette. He offered the pack to Siamak, who simply waved his hand, declining. Hamid shrugged and unwrapped his stick of gum, throwing the wrapper to his feet on the floor.

The old Mercedes travelled smoothly across the desert sands of Kavir-e Lut. It was a terrific view. It was like a pre-historic, mechanical beast meandering along in the sunshine, as if it were a daily occurrence. Only Libya and the US possess similar deserts to those of Iran. 

Unfortunately for the body wrapped in brown parcel paper, housed within the boot of the car, this was not the US. This was Iran.

There were some ruins in the distance. It looked like an ancient industrial ghost town.

Siamak looked out of the windscreen at the ruins. His mind raced with a thousand and one thoughts. He hadn't seen this place before.

The sun continued to beat down, although it was now later in the day. The white Mercedes, with an open boot, was parked near the ruin. It  had either been bombed out, abandoned due to old age or both; neglected, rotten, like the men within.

Hamid leaned against the rear of the vehicle. He looked up to the blue sky and squinted. He eyed the hunks of twisted metal nearby, glanced inside the boot and plucked out a pack of Bahman branded cigarettes. Pleased with his find, he slammed the boot lid down to a close and retrieved a shiny silver Zippo lighter from a front pocket to his jeans. Hamid tapped out a single cigarette, placed it between his tightly pressed lips and flicked a flame from the Zippo. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag from it, exhaling his white transparent smoke into the blue sky, like a rogue cloud.

The faint sound of screaming and shouting echoed off the hardness of the metal that lined the walls within the dark, eerie and cold chamber of the bombed-out underground ruin. The sounds were like screaming ghosts that wailed through the labyrinthine corridors. Heavy breathing and loud footsteps accompanied the occasional flickering shadow exposed by electric lights which were mounted every so often along the walls.

Siamak was illuminated briefly by the wall light. He was struggling to hold the feet end of the body parcel, having unintentionally slammed it into the wall of the corridor several times. He looked up at the body parcel's head end and shrugged.

Hamid looked at the bulging parcel with satisfaction. He signaled men with a quick wave of his hand and the brown parcel tape was ripped this way and that, with one lengthy piece being torn at ease. It suddenly exposed the face of a young white man, whose mouth was gagged with silver tape.

The partially unwrapped man was in a kneeling position, within a generator room. The man was Michael Thompson. Michael was weary and had stubble on his face. His hair was unkempt and, along with his face, was in need of a wash. The brown paper was pulled away, revealing Michael's ill-fitting clothes, consisting of a pale blue shirt and jeans two sizes too large. There was blood that stained the collar as well as the front of the shirt. Michael was also bloodied around the nose and forehead.

A bigger-built Iranian man continued to unwrap the man, with Siamak standing slightly behind, by a metal grille, clutching an AK47 assault rifle.

Michael's eyes darted around. He squinted and tried to adjust to his new surroundings.

Another Iranian set up a Sony DSR-570WSP broadcast quality 'green friendly' camcorder on a tripod.

Michael looked at his bound hands. He breathed through his nose, heavily, in and out, in and out, deep, but with discomfort. It was like he had a cold as, with every breath, a bubble formed from one nostril. It was reminiscent of a frog's throat expanding as it breathed. However, Michael did not have a cold: his nostril bubble was filled with blood. He swayed back and forth, until the man doing the unwrapping, Hamid, took a step back and stared at him for a couple of seconds.

Hamid suddenly punched him, hard, in the side of his face. If it wasn't for the metal clanking noise of a sliding gate behind him that kept him awake, Michael would surely have been knocked out.

Michael's head was forced to look forwards.

Hamid ripped the silver tape off Michael's mouth and then slapped him around the face.

"Why were you in Luxor?" Hamid said, in his strong Middle Eastern accent. "Luxor. Did you spy for the British in Cairo? Did you engineer the uprising against Mubarak?" He slapped him again. "Answer me, you fucking spy dog! Did you start the revolution for the CIA? Are you CIA man in Luxor?" The questioning Hamid turned to Siamak and waved him over.

Siamak joined him, frowned and then Hamid took hold of his rifle.  Hamid suddenly slammed it into Michael's chest, forcing him down to the concrete floor. The angry Iranian stepped over to Michael, towering above him.

Michael opened his mouth to reveal his bloodstained teeth and gums. "I've never been to Luxor. Luxor is Egypt. I live in Luxor Street. It's off Cold Harbour Lane, in Lambeth. The Borough of Lambeth. In London. I live in Luxor Street," he said in his British accent.

Hamid grabbed Michael's hair and yanked his head back. He stared wild into his eyes. "You will take off your clothes and put these on. D'you understand?" He shoved his head away as he released his grasp on his hair.

Michael's eyes searched the floor and fixed on a neatly folded orange jumpsuit.

"Orange is the new black," he sarcastically muttered.

Hamid cut his silver tape bindings and released his hands and feet. Michael shifted himself across the cold, concrete floor on his hands and knees, like an injured animal, to where the orange jumpsuit was. He reached for the suit, but Hamid trod on his right hand. Michael winced with pain and gritted his bloodied teeth.

The big, black Caterpillar boot was lifted, leaving a red mark on the back of Michael's hand.

He grabbed hold of the jumpsuit and pulled it close to him, like a comfort blanket.

"OFF!" yelled Hamid, making Michael jolt when he heard his sudden shriek.

Michael was self-conscious as he unbuttoned his shirt. He revealed his slim and incredibly bruised torso. His chest had cuts and cigarette burn marks across it. He stood up and lowered his jeans. He didn't need to unbutton them as they were too large. He clutched the orange jumpsuit and conserved his modesty, never looking up, but he was fully aware of his dangerous audience.

Hamid stepped forwards and snatched the jumpsuit from Michael. He threw it across the room and sniggered a peculiar laugh that was followed by two chuckles elsewhere in the room.

Michael shivered. He stood naked, with his hands covering his genitals.

Hamid stepped up to him and looked him up and down. "Who beat you?"

Michael tried hard not to make eye contact.

"Who fucking beat you? People cannot wait for me. They probably kick you on the boat when you travel here. You fucking dog!"

Michael rolled his eyes to meet the Iranian's.

"You fucking dog. Do you hate me?"

"I don't know you," replied Michael.

"Do you need to know someone to like or hate them?"

"I would like to get dressed before I start educating you." Michael swallowed and looked around his surroundings.

"Mazhabeto gayidam. Do you not understand?" said Hamid, as he spat in Michael's face.

Michael looked up from the floor as the spit remained on his left cheek, just below his eye.

"It means I fucked your religion. Do you understand? Mazhabeto gayidam! I fucked your religion!" he yelled and spat at him again, but nothing was left his mouth. He just made a raspberry sound, which caused Michael to sneer.

"It makes no sense. How would you do that, exactly? How could you possibly have sexual intercourse with my religion? You don't know if I even am religious," said Michael, in a foolishly brave manner. He shivered and stepped onto the jump-suit, crouching slowly and pulling it up and fastening it.

Hamid curled his lip and stared with disgust at Michael.

"Cooney sag," muttered Michael, under his breath, in Persian.

Hamid bolted and shoved his angry and incredibly surprised face close to Michael's.

"You know my language? You call me a faggot? Sag mazhab! Sag mazhab!" yelled Hamid."