53

Majid took me into a room constructed from three adjacent Portakabins. It looked like it had been air-dropped into Iran from the 1972 Ideal Home Exhibition, and the cigarette smoke hovering at face level gave it that extra stamp of authenticity. The work surface running around its edge was covered with brown Formica. The floor was covered with red and black marbled lino tiles that did their best to camouflage the burn marks from stubbed-out butts. Air-conditioning units were built into the wall, but none was switched on. They probably didn’t work.

On the left-hand side, some local journalists typed away on desk-top computers that Alan Sugar would have fired immediately. The light grey plastic had been turned black in places by years of handling, and the air vents looked like coked-up exhaust pipes. Several more journos jabbered into Bakelite telephones set up alongside them.

On the far side of the room two or three foreign journalists pounded away on their laptops. One was the guy with the jungle hat and long lens I’d spotted earlier. A TV in the corner was belting out Iran’s version of Sunrise. Same colour scheme, same rolling news at the bottom of the screen. The only thing missing was Eamonn Holmes. And his tie.

Majid waved his arm to clear some of the smoke from an Iranian journalist standing next to us. ‘This is the press centre. From here, Mr Munley, you can file your stories to your editor, check the latest announcements from companies at the show or simply relax. You will find everything that you need here, including free Internet access. Know that all your editorial needs can be met in this room. And if there is anything we haven’t thought of, then all you have to do is ask.’

Only part of me was listening. The rest was tracking a girl who’d just walked into the room. The scarf on her head didn’t quite cover her hair, which was so naturally blonde I knew she couldn’t be Iranian. She looked a whole lot like the one from Abba I’d fancied big-time as a teenager. I used to sit in the NAAFI as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier with my pint of Vimto and a steak and kidney pie, waiting for Top of the Pops to come on. ‘Dancing Queen’ had been number one for what seemed five years, and this boy soldier always hoped her reign would be extended one more week.

As she manoeuvred past us and sat down under the TV, it was like having Cinza walk by at the funeral. The Red Sea parted. I studied her face. And why not? Every other man in the room was. The high cheekbones gave her away. She was Ukrainian or Russian; eastern European, for sure.

The bit of me that wasn’t tracking her and listening to Majid was trying to work out how I could access the chalet line that Kettle had told me about – the VIP area where the execs hung out away from prying eyes; the place where the real deals were done and maybe Altun would be. I needed to head over to M3C and get an invite.

‘Majid, I need to do a comparison of the missile system I’ve just seen with what the Russians are developing in the same field. Are M3C exhibiting here?’

Majid riffled through the show guide. ‘They are in Hall Two, at Stand Three E – next door, in fact, to the Shahid Hemmat Industrial Complex. You know this company, I suspect, James . . . Do you mind if I call you by this?’

‘No problem, mate.’ I knew I should have said James at the airport. Never mind, he was coming around.

Majid inclined his head in a mock-bow. ‘After you have visited the Russian stand, I can take you to see the director of Shahid Hemmat. You will like this company very much, James. It represents the very best of our Iranian technology. Doubtless you heard of the rocket that Iran put into orbit last year? The company that built it was Shahid Hemmat. You will be able to give your editor a real exclusive, believe me.’

You had to hand it to him. When his days in the Revolutionary Guard ended, he could always become a salesman for Iran plc.