Exit wound

I stared out of the window. The Imam Khomeini International Airport had been built to commemorate the mastermind of 1979’s Islamic Revolution. The blurb in the seat pocket in front of me said it had opened officially in May 2004 and was designed to take over from Mehrabad as Tehran’s main airport for foreign air travel. Mehrabad, in the meantime, had been designated as Tehran’s principal domestic airport. Gripping stuff. Kettle would have been on the edge of his seat.

From my brief sweep of our surroundings as the plane trundled along the taxiway it was clear that IKIA was only half finished, whatever it said on the tin. Much of it was still a building site. Diggers tore along the perimeter fence, sending up clouds of dust behind them. Men with hod-loads of bricks over their shoulders stared at the plane as it bumped past them. The skeletons of half-completed buildings rose from the dirt on either side of the runway.

Beyond the fence, I could see nothing but scrub and rubble. Nobody was ever going to contest the building of another runway here; it might only have been twenty miles south of Tehran, but in reality it was in the middle of nowhere.

In the distance, half hidden by shit kicked up by the construction work, were rows of military transport aircraft – a hallmark of the developing-world welcome. There, among them, parked in front of a modern, single-storey building, was a gleaming white Dassault Falcon 7X.

As soon as the aircraft rocked to a stop, everybody sprang to their feet to follow the example of my farting friend, who was already elbowing his way down the aisle and powering up his mobile. I waited until the plane was three-quarters empty before I got out of my seat and pulled down my day-sack.

As soon as I stepped off the jetway into the terminal I could see big brother was watching me. There were CCTV cameras everywhere. I tucked behind a group of passengers from my flight and scanned the faces coming the other way. All I got back was a shed-load of gawping from suspicious-looking Iranians. I hadn’t seen a Westerner since we’d stopped off at Dubai.

The inside of the terminal was as modern as anything I’d ever been in. My Timberlands squeaked on the polished marble as I followed the signs in Farsi and English to Immigration.

The military presence was low-key until I got to Passport Control. Iranians and Arabs were directed one way; I was sent the other. I followed a roped-off walkway until eventually I ended up facing a stern-looking woman in her twenties seated in a glass booth. It was flanked by two AKs, each with a green-uniformed squaddie firmly attached. I glanced over my shoulder. The welcome was exclusively for me. I knew the best way to deal with situations like this was to look intimidated. People in booths like to wield power over others. It makes them feel good.

The woman adjusted the arms of her thick black specs beneath her thick black head covering and beckoned me towards her. ‘Passport.’

I handed it over. Now I was closer I could see her face was more Cindy Crawford than Ugly Betty. She had smooth skin, a small, slightly upturned nose, and gleaming white, perfectly uniform teeth. She looked so perfect she could have been chiselled. And, coming from Tehran, she might very well have been. More plastic-surgery and sex-change operations were performed here than in LA or Bangkok – another useless nugget I’d picked up among the stuff I’d learnt last night from Julian’s int pack.

She looked up from my passport. No smile, just disdain. ‘Your business, Mr Manley?’

First trick question. She was already holding my passport: the London media visa stated exactly what I was here for.

‘I’m here for IranEx – the aerospace and defence exhibition. I’m a journalist.’

She seemed to take it in her stride. She slid the passport under a scanner and stared into space while her computer crunched away at the data.

The two AK-holders glared at me as if I was George W himself. But that was OK: they got as much bullshit fed to them about us as we did about them. I just carried on playing dumb, not getting too smart, and looking a little bit scared.

Bang, bang.

I glanced down. She was stamping my passport.

‘Enjoy your stay in the Islamic Republic. Now I need your fingerprints.’ She pointed to a small box covered with a green rag. They used the same system in the US: place a finger on the glass tray and she’d take a picture. The only difference here was the absence of wipes, just the same bit of rag for everyone.

47

Like Iran’s defence industry, my little light reading in Tufnell Park last night had told me, its internal security apparatus shouldn’t be underestimated. Not much was known about Tehran’s counter-intelligence set-up, but what was, wasn’t good. No single organization appeared to have complete control. That was good to hear: it meant there were gaps in the system. The problem was, I didn’t know where the gaps were.