Read Online Tomy and the Planet of Lies by Erich von Däniken - Free Book Online Page B

finally have a sign of life from me, and said she wanted to let Marc’s parents know as soon as possible. I noticed a strange echo on the line and realized that the phone was being tapped. So I restricted myself to telling her banalities and made no mention of Tomy. At around one o’clock—I was getting bad-tempered by this point—two official limousines flying Iranian standards on their grills arrived at the hotel. Out of one of them emerged the commandant we had met the previous day, dressed up as if he were at a diplomatic reception, but still with the black armband on his left arm, and then two older, serious-looking gentlemen. They were introduced to me but I didn’t catch the Arabic names. One moved smoothly, like a dancer, so I called him Ali. He stank of cheap cologne. The other reminded me of the Egyptian actor Omar Sharif. He smiled constantly in an understanding way with the charming affectedness of a salesman in a bazaar. His charm was captivating; he could probably have even seduced a man into bed.
    The commandant, now wearing the khaki uniform of a four-star general, invited us to join him at the table. Us three—the other three—and one place remaining empty. A lady would be joining us, the commandant informed us, but we needn’t wait for her before beginning.
    We talked in English—Marc had no problems with the language, he grew up in Canada, and Tomy, too, seemed to have no problems keeping up. We started with the seemingly harmless topic of archeology in general and the grand Persian culture in particular. Four waiters and a chef de service flitted constantly around us; it was probably the entire complement of the hotel. They brought a two-pound jar of Iranian caviar, served on a trolley on a bed of crushed ice. It was accompanied by capers, chopped egg, onion rings, lemons, butter, and toast. I can’t stand fish eggs, as I’ve already mentioned, I think they’re disgusting. Nevertheless, there’s no accounting for taste. For the sake of politeness, I took the smallest possible amount and noticed that Tomy screwed up his face in disgust. For him it was the first taste of Iranian caviar in his life. Marc, the son of a family of restaurateurs, dug in.
    The second course was smoked salmon, served with all the usual accouterments. A perfect meal, except that the Coca Cola didn’t exactly fit the bill. With every minute that passed I kept asking myself, when these fine Iranian gents were going to let the cat out of the bag. An exquisite, expensive meal just for the sake of small talk? I smelled a rat. Marc and Tomy seemed oblivious. Finally, as our conversation had just steered towards the mysteries of the great pyramids of Egypt, a tall brunette made her entrance, walking a little like a catwalk model. Everyone stood—how well brought up! The woman, who was aged around 28 and had shoulder-length brown hair, kissed the commandant and “Omar Sharif,” shook hands with us and stopped in front of Tomy. “It’s him,” she observed, smiling charmingly at him.
    She had a cheerful face, full, sensual lips, and a finely proportioned nose. Something about her bothered me. Was it her self-assured manner? Her lack of concern? The way she treated us like friends? Was it her extremely feminine figure, which was accentuated by her thin, pale-blue blouse? Or was that just because I hadn’t seen a beautiful woman in such a long time? Her accent was unmistakably French. Unmistakable for me, because I grew up in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. And, indeed, she introduced herself as Chantal, the commandant nodding and smiling as she did so. She had grown up, she explained, in a small town south of Carcasonne in France and now worked in Iran as a translator for a French oil company.
    The third course was served—tender lamb in a white wine sauce with young peas. We talked about hundreds of unimportant and irrelevant things and it