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.

We stopped by a Mercedes E-class that had pulled over in a bus lane. A guy in a short-sleeved white shirt – buttoned up, of course – had been pretending to read a newspaper as he sat behind the wheel. He awoke with a start when Majid sprang the boot and shot out to help with my bags long after the moment had passed. He was in his sixties and balding, but had forearms the size of logs and shoulder muscles that rippled under his shirt. Wrestling was a big thing here, and this old boy looked like he could still go a few rounds.

Majid sat in the passenger seat. I got in the back. The airport’s public-address system called the faithful to prayer just as the sun began to set over the distant mountains.

‘I expect you are tired, Mr Munley, so we will go straight to your hotel. You are booked into the Bandar, are you not? Three stars. A very nice hotel, very central. Your people chose well.’ I caught his smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘This is your first time in Iran?’

My first time, I acknowledged. But on the basis of what I’d seen so far, it certainly wouldn’t be my last.

He turned around and shook my hand. ‘Then welcome. I hope you will enjoy your stay here very much.’

The wrestler pulled out of the bus lane and almost ran into a taxi. There was a screech of brakes and a sudden whiff of bubbling rubber, then an angry exchange between the two drivers. But one glance at Majid and the other guy got right back into his box.

That told me just about everything I needed to know. I’d been placed very firmly in the tender loving care of the IRGC’s Intelligence Branch.