held out a pen.
‘Enjoy it, old boy. Make up for all those moments of untruth.’
‘Untruth?’
‘All those times you’ve blamed me for leading you into things you didn’t believe in. What did you call them? “Parish magazines for blue-chip companies”. Official histories of pumping stations. Profiles of the chairman. I know you think I’m a cynical old cow, but while I happily admit the pleasure I get from screwing money out of tight-fisted corporate accountants I wouldn’t share a taxi with, I’m genuinely proud of this one. Hamish Melville is one of the few good men left, one of the rare people I want to know more rather than less about. And for some wholly inexplicable reason you have landed the dream job of satisfying my curiosity.’
She tapped one of the typed pages.
‘And my greed.’
She dropped the pen in front of him.
‘I honestly believe this is far and away the best thing you will ever do.’
Mabbut looked at Silla. Her dark but well-cut hair framed a sturdy, strong-boned face. A face that was both lively and inscrutable. Theface of a survivor. He knew that face and he knew that look. She wasn’t going to back down. Well, neither was he. Not yet.
‘I’m sorry, Silla.’
Behind her, the kettle surged, climaxed, and faded.
EIGHT
I t was nearly two o’clock that afternoon when Mabbut turned off the Edgware Road and, checking his daughter’s message one final time, searched for the name Harveh in a row of cafés and shops brimming with sweets and pastries. Outside some were tables where shorthaired, broad-shouldered men sat playing draughts and smoking narghiles. He spotted the slim incongruous figure of his daughter, waving to him, almost silhouetted by the bright lights of a cafés’ interior.
Harveh was small and very busy and it was a moment or two before he picked out a young man dressed in Western clothes looking anxiously in their direction. Jay raised her hand towards him and Mabbut was aware of her attention slipping away from him to this awkward, diffident boy – yes, he was a boy – who rose to meet her.
‘Dad, this is Shiraj.’
The boy’s dark eyes met his. They showed little animation. Jay rested a hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her and, for some reason, shook his head.
‘Shiraj. This is my dad.’
Mabbut reached out and they shook hands. It was no more than a touch of hands really, hardly a shake.
‘Sorry I couldn’t make it last night,’ said Mabbut.
They all squeezed around the table and a waiter brought tea. Shiraj looked so young and so vulnerable; his daughter’s awareness of this and her response to it was something that touched Mabbut. She’d always been open and generous with her feelings – he’d regarded this as both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness – and Mabbut felt a tug of envy at the artlessness of her affection.
They ate sherbet and drank pomegranate juice. Shiraj had sharp, birdlike features and jet-black eyes that were constantly on the move. He had been studying English at college in Tehran but had come under suspicion for spending time with Kurdish groups. He had been arrested, asked for names he couldn’t give, and then beaten up pretty badly and warned not to return to the university.
‘Were you any threat to the government?’
Shiraj smiled thinly.
‘If you are a Kurd in Iran then you are always a threat. Guilty until proved innocent.’
‘You’re a Kurd?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why get involved with them?’
‘Dad, if you knew how these people were treated you’d . . .’
Quietly but firmly, Shiraj laid a restraining hand on Jay’s arm. It was an oddly grown-up gesture and Mabbut felt bad for misreading him as a boy.
‘They happened to be my friends, sir, and they needed my help.’ He looked Mabbut in the eye. ‘I was not a martyr. I wasn’t a Kurdish nationalist. They were my friends and they were in trouble.’
‘They stubbed cigarettes out on their arms, for God’s
‘Enjoy it, old boy. Make up for all those moments of untruth.’
‘Untruth?’
‘All those times you’ve blamed me for leading you into things you didn’t believe in. What did you call them? “Parish magazines for blue-chip companies”. Official histories of pumping stations. Profiles of the chairman. I know you think I’m a cynical old cow, but while I happily admit the pleasure I get from screwing money out of tight-fisted corporate accountants I wouldn’t share a taxi with, I’m genuinely proud of this one. Hamish Melville is one of the few good men left, one of the rare people I want to know more rather than less about. And for some wholly inexplicable reason you have landed the dream job of satisfying my curiosity.’
She tapped one of the typed pages.
‘And my greed.’
She dropped the pen in front of him.
‘I honestly believe this is far and away the best thing you will ever do.’
Mabbut looked at Silla. Her dark but well-cut hair framed a sturdy, strong-boned face. A face that was both lively and inscrutable. Theface of a survivor. He knew that face and he knew that look. She wasn’t going to back down. Well, neither was he. Not yet.
‘I’m sorry, Silla.’
Behind her, the kettle surged, climaxed, and faded.
EIGHT
I t was nearly two o’clock that afternoon when Mabbut turned off the Edgware Road and, checking his daughter’s message one final time, searched for the name Harveh in a row of cafés and shops brimming with sweets and pastries. Outside some were tables where shorthaired, broad-shouldered men sat playing draughts and smoking narghiles. He spotted the slim incongruous figure of his daughter, waving to him, almost silhouetted by the bright lights of a cafés’ interior.
Harveh was small and very busy and it was a moment or two before he picked out a young man dressed in Western clothes looking anxiously in their direction. Jay raised her hand towards him and Mabbut was aware of her attention slipping away from him to this awkward, diffident boy – yes, he was a boy – who rose to meet her.
‘Dad, this is Shiraj.’
The boy’s dark eyes met his. They showed little animation. Jay rested a hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her and, for some reason, shook his head.
‘Shiraj. This is my dad.’
Mabbut reached out and they shook hands. It was no more than a touch of hands really, hardly a shake.
‘Sorry I couldn’t make it last night,’ said Mabbut.
They all squeezed around the table and a waiter brought tea. Shiraj looked so young and so vulnerable; his daughter’s awareness of this and her response to it was something that touched Mabbut. She’d always been open and generous with her feelings – he’d regarded this as both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness – and Mabbut felt a tug of envy at the artlessness of her affection.
They ate sherbet and drank pomegranate juice. Shiraj had sharp, birdlike features and jet-black eyes that were constantly on the move. He had been studying English at college in Tehran but had come under suspicion for spending time with Kurdish groups. He had been arrested, asked for names he couldn’t give, and then beaten up pretty badly and warned not to return to the university.
‘Were you any threat to the government?’
Shiraj smiled thinly.
‘If you are a Kurd in Iran then you are always a threat. Guilty until proved innocent.’
‘You’re a Kurd?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why get involved with them?’
‘Dad, if you knew how these people were treated you’d . . .’
Quietly but firmly, Shiraj laid a restraining hand on Jay’s arm. It was an oddly grown-up gesture and Mabbut felt bad for misreading him as a boy.
‘They happened to be my friends, sir, and they needed my help.’ He looked Mabbut in the eye. ‘I was not a martyr. I wasn’t a Kurdish nationalist. They were my friends and they were in trouble.’
‘They stubbed cigarettes out on their arms, for God’s
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