Devil May Care

James Bond to my home town. I am aware of the danger you have placed yourself in, but I rejoice in my own good fortune. Come inside.’
    Darius Alizadeh held out his hand and clasped Bond’s. It was a firm dry shake that spoke of frankness and friendship – not the half-hearted, slippery recoil that Bond had encountered in Beirut and Cairo. Darius was over six feet tall, with a large head and dark features in which the deep-set brown eyes sparkled with conspiratorial camaraderie. His thick black hair was swept back from his forehead, and unashamedly shot through with grey at the temples and the sides. He wore a white suit with a raised collar in the Indian style and an open-necked blue shirt that had a look of the shop windows on Rome’s via Condotti.
    He led Bond through a long, wood-floored hall, past a wide staircase, then out through french windows and into the back garden. They crossed the terrace and went down into the green shade. Next to a pond was a table set with candles and numerous bottles. Darius gestured Bond to a low, padded chair.
    ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the garden. It’s good to be cool at last, isn’t it? I normally take a beer before cocktails, just towash away the city dust. The beer’s pretty filthy, imported American, but it’ll give you something to do while I mix you a proper drink. And it’s very, very cold.’
    He rang a small brass bell on the table, and a young man in traditional Persian dress emerged from the dusk of the terrace. ‘Babak,’ said Darius. He clapped his hands. ‘We have a guest. Let’s move.’
    The young man gave a short salaam and a wide smile as he scurried off.
    A few seconds later Bond held an icy beer in his left hand. Behind him, a row of tall cypress trees gave privacy to Darius’s garden, and in front of them were innumerable roses, mostly black and yellow, so far as Bond could make out by the light of the torches in the lawn. Round the rectangular pond were mosaic tiles in intricate patterns.
    ‘Gardens mean a lot to us here,’ said Darius, following Bond’s eyes. ‘Water is almost like a god to us in such a dry country. Listen. You can hear our little waterfall at the end of the lawn. I designed it myself and had it made by a craftsman from Isfahan whose grandfather worked on one of the mosques. Would you like a dry martini, vodka and tonic, or Scotch whisky and soda?’
    Bond opted for the martini and watched as Darius shook the ingredients in the silver shaker. He nodded his approval over the rim of the glass: the ice had fiercely chilled the liquor without diluting it.
    ‘Now,’ said Darius, ‘you’d better tell me how I can help you.’
    As Babak returned with a silver dish of caviar, Bond told Darius what he knew of Julius Gorner. He had trusted Darius from the first moment and his instinct in such things was seldom wrong. He also knew that Darius had been headof the Tehran station for twenty years and was well regarded byM.
    Darius spooned a large dollop of caviar – equivalent in size to a small plum – on to one of the delicate plates and squeezed lime juice over it. With a quick movement of his hands, using a small piece of flatbread, he transferred the whole plateful to his mouth, following it with a long pull of iced neat vodka.
    ‘Terribly Russian of me, I know,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s how I like it best. It’s not bad, this Beluga, is it?’ He bent his nose to the plate. ‘It should smell of the sea but never of fish.’
    He lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair. ‘Well, I’ve heard of this man Gorner, James. Of course I have. But perhaps you should know a thing or two about me first. My mother was from the Qashqai tribe, widely regarded as the most treacherous, bloodthirsty and ruthless people in Persia. When the Shah was plotting his return with the Americans, he never even considered trying to win them to his side.’ Darius threw back his head and laughed. ‘The Kurds, the Arabs, the Reformers, the Baluchistanis, even the mullahs, yes, but never the terrible Qashqai. My father, on the other hand, came from a diplomatic family in Tehran which had long ties of allegiance to the West. He himself was educated at Harvard and I studied at Oxford, which, in case you’re wondering, is why I sound like an English gentleman. I know this country from all sides. I can lose myself with the tribesmen in the desert or I can make small-talk in French at their embassy down the road – though frankly I prefer the