Devil May Care

former. I’ve seen many nationalities come and go in Persia – or Iran, as Reza Shah, the current Shah’s father, wanted us to call it. Turks, Russians, French, German,American, British. Here we are at the hinge of East and West. The only country between Russia and a warm-water port. Of course, they have the Black Sea, but they can’t get past the Turks, who are the gatekeepers at the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. Good God, can you imagine more cantankerous guardians?’
    Darius leaned forward and helped himself to more caviar which he dispatched in the same way as before. ‘My point is this, James. We are used to being interfered with. Sometimes we feel ourselves like a poor old hooker in the rue St Denis. Anyone can have us for a price. During the war, the Allies thought we were too chummy with the Germans, so they invaded us and the Shah was booted out. Then they thought Mr Mossadegh, our fine independent prime minister, was too open to the Russians. They also distrusted him because he was often photographed in public wearing what looked like pyjamas. So the Americans sent a gentleman called Kermit Roosevelt to help mount a coup and bring the Shah home from exile and back on to the throne. I confess I was of some minor assistance to Mr Roosevelt. We don’t mind any of this too much, so long as we are left to get on with our own lives. Tehran is a nest of spies. It always has been and it always will be. One witty British visitor suggested that the Russians and the Americans should simply share apartments to cut down on the cost of mutual bugging. But there’s one thing that always sets alarm bells ringing – and that’s when a foreigner comes in and wants too much. People are welcome to try and make money here, though it’s difficult to do it legally. Apart from oil. We also accept a degree of political interference if there’s something in it for us: protection, influence, arms, dollars. But not both at the same time. And everything I’ve heard about thisGorner has made me extremely uneasy. And, as I hope I may have suggested, I’m not easily frightened.’
    Darius made another jug of martinis. ‘Have some more caviar, James. In ten minutes I’ll get Farshad to drive us down to the best restaurant in Tehran. It’s in the south of the city, near the bazaar. No one’ll recognize me there. Pretty well everyone in Tehran knows I work for your employer. Your boss has a theory that more people with useful information can come to me if they know who I am, and he may be right. The drawback is that I can’t be seen in public with you. It would be dangerous for you. But down there, no one knows who I am. Also, the food, James …’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Better than your mother made it. As good as a poem by Hafez.’
    ‘I never imagined you were so poetic, Darius,’ said Bond, with a smile. ‘My colleagues are normally cold-eyed men with guns.’
    ‘I don’t believe you for a minute, James. But gardens and poetry are close to the Persian soul. And poems about gardens, even better. “I saw a garden pure as paradise,” as Nezami put it. “A myriad different hues were mingled there/A myriad scents drenched miles of perfumed air/The rose lay in the hyacinth’s embrace/The jasmine –”’
    ‘The car is waiting, sir.’ Babak had materialized from the darkness.
    ‘Damn you, Babak! You have no soul. I’ve told you before not to interrupt when I’m reciting poetry. Are you ready, James? Shall we go and do battle with the madmen of the highway? Are you hungry?’
    ‘Certainly.’ Bond had declined the airline food and, apart from the caviar, had eaten nothing since a limp croissant at the airport in Paris.
    Farshad was waiting at the front with the Mercedes, and within a few moments they were heading south on the cacophony of Pahlavi Avenue, weaving through the traffic as though Farshad believed this was their last ever chance of eating.
    After they crossed Molavi Avenue, Bond gave up trying to orientate himself and surrendered himself to Darius’s narrative.
    ‘Kermit Roosevelt,’ Darius was saying, ‘was rather an absurd man, to be honest. I used to play tennis with him sometimes and when he hit a bad shot he would chastise himself by saying, “Ooh, Roosevelt!” This was unfortunate since he was meant to be called “Mr Green” or some such thing. I’ve never seen a man drink so much liquor on the job. You’d think he was nervous or something. Cases of whisky and vodka used to go