Exit wound

Ali beckoned me to a carved table in the corner of the balcony and invited me to sit down. He pulled up a chair next to me. For a moment, he stared out over the rooftops, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket. He produced an object wrapped in an ornate, gold-embroidered cloth, the kind of thing I’d been dodging during my walk through the market. He started to unwrap it, but was disturbed by a noise inside the apartment – the sound of a door closing. He rewrapped it quickly and placed it back in his pocket just as Aisha walked in. He smiled at her. ‘How is Father?’

Out of some kind of respect thing for me, perhaps, he spoke in English.

‘Resting.’

While there was something childlike and innocent about Ali, Aisha was every inch the big sister. She still wasn’t impressed with me.

I held her gaze. ‘How often does this happen, Aisha?’

‘Often enough, Mr Manley. But we will cope, we need no help.’

Fair one, keep my nose out. It was clear she didn’t want me here. Except that I’d been dragged headlong into the apartment of an overdosing heroin addict, it was none of my business.

‘Would you like some tea, Mr Manley?’

‘Tea would be good.’

As soon as she had left the room, Ali retrieved the object from his pocket. He set it on the table and unwrapped it again. ‘I am sorry, Jim, but my sister doesn’t like me talking about certain things, things that interest me, but are of no interest to her – and especially in front of strangers. But, if you will allow me to say so, you do not feel like a stranger to me. I have always wanted to do what you are doing – writing about military technology, aircraft… hardware, I think you call it. And that you were looking for me is such a compliment. I feel very privileged.’

With a final flourish, he unfolded the cloth and produced a military medal inscribed in Farsi.

69

He passed it to me. ‘My father joined a Basij Battalion – a volunteer battalion. They ended up in a village in the desert somewhere west of Khorramabad.’

The decoration was thin and tinny, but those things didn’t matter to any soldier from any country the world over.

‘The Iraqis attacked and our forces counter-attacked. The village changed hands many times. My father was a lieutenant, in charge of a platoon of young Basij. Most of them were just fourteen or fifteen.’

I passed the medal back and he polished it with the rag.

‘My father was ordered to carry out a first-wave assault on the village. They had to attack across the minefields, using their own bodies in the name of jihad to clear them so that the main force of Revolutionary Guards could follow through and wipe out the Iraqis. He did not hesitate. He and his men assaulted the enemy across the minefield. That was when my father was injured. A mine blew him up, but he and his soldiers who survived the minefield still fought on and took the village. The Revolutionary Guard were not needed. And he received this for his bravery.’ He held up the newly gleaming disc. ‘A martyrdom medal. The highest award you could receive. The Supreme Leader himself presented it. War is a terrible thing, James, but for my father to have been decorated in this way, for what he did, is a very big honour. It is one of the many reasons I love my father so… and why I forgive him for what he has done.’ He wrapped the medal back in the rag.

‘The drugs? That could happen to-’

‘No, Jim. My mother, he was a terrible man to her. He beat her – sometimes I would come home from school and she would be lying just there.’ He pointed under my chair. ‘In her own blood. My father would then cry and beg forgiveness, and she would give it.’ He stood up and put the martyrdom medal back into his jeans. ‘I keep it with me. Always.’

‘You should be very proud, Ali.’

He stood up. ‘I am, Jim – very much. Now let me show you what I know about the Falcon.’

70

I’d never been able to understand what made grown men stand at railway stations or airports writing down numbers – or play golf, come to that.

Ali’s bedroom shelves were lined with books, some in English. There were hefty volumes on engineering and reference books by the yard on all kinds of aircraft. Maybe this subject and this room were where he’d retreated when the trouble started at home.

Ali opened an antique desk. Inside was a laptop. He fired it up, snatching the odd glance at his father through the adjoining door as he waited for it to come online. I sat and got on with my glass of very sweet black tea. Through the open door, I had a good view of his dad. He was sleeping soundly now, as the fan battered his bedding once more.

Ali kept his voice low. ‘First, I need to log on to iranianmetalbird.net to see if there have been any unusual movements…’ He tapped some keys and his home page came up. He traced his finger across a table. ‘Both main airports, Jim – IKIA and Mehrabad. From this time column I can see which aircraft have landed and departed.’

‘In real time?’

‘Let me show you.’