Exit wound

There were three groups I had to worry about. The first was MoIS, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, or Vevak, as it was known in Farsi. It had around fifteen thousand full-time members all doing their meanest for the Republic. It had lost some of its powers in the 1990s following a scandal in which a truckload of Iranian dissidents, mainly Sunni Kurds, had ended up very dead – a fact that made even the lapdog Iranian press sit up and complain. Perhaps it had occurred to them that they might be next in the queue. To show it was still on the side of the people, the Iranian government drummed up some charges against what it called ‘rogue elements’ in Vevak and, after some ritual bloodletting, everybody went away happy. Except the rogue elements. They’d ended up facing Mecca, but six feet under.

In the meantime, the power of the second mob, the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps Intelligence Branch, had increased. Much smaller than Vevak, the IRGC Intelligence Branch were fearsome in their loyalty to the state – they were the Iranian equivalent of the Gestapo, in effect, and swore death to the enemies of the Islamic Revolution. I decided to try to give them a wide berth.

Then there was the Basij Resistance Force, a volunteer army of around a million people, mostly old men, who had volunteered after completing their military service, or others too young to join the army. A bit like the Hitler Youth, I supposed.

The Basij had a history of martyr-style suicide attacks dating back to the Iran-Iraq war, which had claimed a million lives on both sides during the 1980s. These lads were the ultimate guided weapon. They’d run across enemy minefields to clear them, or load up with explosives and detonate themselves on top of an Iraqi tank or trench.

Like the Stasi in East Germany, the Basij were also the ‘eyes and ears’ of the revolution. Put a foot wrong or badmouth the government and, chances were, someone, somewhere would tell the Basij. The next thing you knew, the lynch mob would be at your door.

The police force comprised around forty thousand regulars under the control of the Ministry of the Interior, but compared to Vevak, the IRGC and the Basij, these guys were pushovers. And even though the mullahs appeared to view women with complete contempt, it didn’t stop them recruiting tens of thousands into the ranks of the secret police.

I wondered where Ms Perfect fitted into this picture. Perhaps the Tourist Board corps.

My bag was the only one left on the carousel by the time I reached the baggage hall. It didn’t look as if it had been tampered with, but of course it had. Otherwise they would have let me take it on board as hand luggage, as I’d planned to.

I walked out into the arrivals hall and spotted a tall guy in his early thirties, in a very shiny black leather jacket, holding up a placard. He had a neatly groomed goatee and was so thin his Adam’s apple looked as though it was fighting to get out of his neck. A pair of round, wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his incongruously bulbous nose. The scrawl on the placard read: ‘Jame Munley – travel from Dubai’.

48

Majid Forsheh was from the Ministry of Information. He’d been assigned to me at the personal behest of the minister, he proudly informed me, to attend to my every need for the duration of my stay in the Islamic Republic.

One look at Majid, with his white shirt buttoned all the way up and no tie – an evil Western invention – told me he wasn’t just here to help me on and off the buses. Everything about him reeked of security. But what had I expected? If it was an open secret that defence exhibitions were crawling with spooks, then it was a foregone conclusion that I was going to get a minder. But that was OK, because I had no choice. Getting what Julian wanted – and, more importantly, what I wanted – was what I was here for. I’d just have to work around him.

Majid insisted on carrying my case as we walked to his car. ‘Did you have a pleasant trip, Mr Munley?’

‘Why don’t you call me Jim?’ I gave him a five-hundred-watt smile. ‘Fantastic, mate. Great passengers, good food and first-rate in-flight entertainment. I’ll never be touching British Airways again.’

Majid beamed like a lottery winner. ‘And what do you think of our new Imam Khomeini International Airport?’

‘I think the Ayatollah would have approved. Beats our Terminal Five hands down.’

‘Yes, it is most impressive, is it not, Mr Munley?’

We’d established, then, that Majid didn’t do sarcasm – and that he didn’t like the name Jim. Maybe I should have kept it more formal.