The Knight's Tale - 2. Chapter 2

In central London, two men sat in the family dining room finishing lunch. The soft buzz of a house phone could be heard. A moment later, the butler entered, approached the man seated at the head of the table, leaned in, and spoke quietly and respectfully.

“Excuse me, Prime Minister. The Iranian Foreign Minister has arrived and will be in The Study in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Ferguson.”

He turned to his companion with a loving smile. “Duty calls. I’ll see you for dinner, shall I?”

“Of course, love. Good luck with the Minister.”

“Oh, I expect things are rather well sorted by now.”

The PM stood, walked the two steps to his husband’s chair, offered and received a quick buss on the lips, and stepped out of the room. His body straightened into the posture and dignity befitting the head of Her Majesty’s Government.

Outside the door to the private quarters, Prime Minister The Right Honourable Sir Robert Attworthy, KCBE, was met by his two bodyguards, Metropolitan Police Officers Blaine and Cloughen; as well as Alicia Woerner, his special assistant; and representatives from the Foreign Office and Ministry of Defence.

As they walked the short distance to the elevator, Attworthy asked to no one in particular, “Anything new?”

“No, Prime Minister. Exactly as we discussed this morning.” Oliver Haddon, Assistant Secretary of Defence (Middle East Portfolio), spoke crisply and concisely, which the PM appreciated.

Early in his administration, Attworthy had made clear his demand for brief, direct, and to-the-point answers to all questions. If there was anything requiring more than ten or fifteen words to explain, he insisted it be put in writing and texted to Alicia. More often than not, she was able to boil it down to the desired brevity and precision.

People who knew the PM had long been envious of his lightning grasp of complicated topics and his unabashed method of plowing through bullshit, leaving embarrassed over-talkers hanging their heads in discomfiture.

The little group entered the elevator and stood in thoughtful silence as it took them down to the ground floor. Arriving in Attworthy’s outer office–called “The Study” since the days of Margaret Thatcher–the entourage fanned out to their customary seats on two facing couches.

Next to the fireplace, two Chesterfield wing-back leather chairs were reserved for the principal participants in the meeting–in this case, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and the Iranian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Dr. Hassan Tohjani.

Moments later, the door to the corridor opened, and Agnes Markle, the PM’s appointments secretary, entered and stepped to the side as a dignified entourage streamed into The Study.

The Foreign Minister led the party. He was followed by his translator, a deputy, and an officer from the Islamic Republican Guard Corps, dressed in a business suit with a tiny black and gold lapel pin bearing the machine-gun logo of the IRGC.

Turning his gaze to the security detail who closely shadowed the IRGC officer, the Prime Minister got a quick nod, indicating the man had been searched for weapons, as well as recording instruments of any kind.

Behind the Iranians followed a British Foreign Office minder whose job it was to know where Tohjani was at all times, and the parade was brought up by the PM’s own translator.

As everyone knew, the Foreign Minister had been educated at Cambridge and spoke impeccable English with an upper-class British accent. However, two translators were always present as a backup, or in case another member of the party who did not speak English (or who chose not to do so) had something to say or was asked a direct question. Other than those circumstances, protocol required that all remain silent except the principals.

When they had all been seated and offered coffee or tea, Attworthy looked at Virginia Cutler, Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs, signaling that she should begin the meeting.

She acknowledged each of the two leaders with a polite nod, “Prime Minister. Minister Tohjani. As you are aware, this meeting is meant as a final informal check-in.

“The agreed-upon treaty documents admitting the Islamic Republic of Iran to the newly-formed Council on Middle Eastern Peace and Harmony, or COMEPH (she was referring to the signature foreign policy accomplishment of the Attworthy administration), are already in the hands of the appropriate vetters, editors, and translators.

“They represent the fruits of six months of both open and confidential negotiations, and they are the culmination of numerous debates, compromises, demands, and concessions on all sides.”

She paused to look around The Study. Noting no questions or comments, she went on.

“The definitive documents are scheduled to be signed in two weeks in Istanbul by the heads of state of Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the various emirates and sheikhdoms of the Gulf–and of course The United Kingdom.

“Most notably, as all are aware, the United States and members of the European Union are not signatories to this treaty, and will never be members of COMEPH.

“The only current Middle East ‘nation’ left out is Yemen, which, per the treaty, will be divided among Saudi and the Emirates. Each will take responsibility for its own tribal peoples who are currently sharing the undefined artificial territory, which has never had a recognized border in its entire history.”

In this purely ceremonial meeting, all that needed to happen was for Attworthy and Tohjani to share a cup of tea, make pleasantries, shake hands, and express their happy anticipation of seeing each other in two weeks’ time in Istanbul.

Twenty minutes later, the necessary formalities being dispensed with and the friendly banter having run its course, the PM stood and extended his hand to Tohjani amicably.

They shook warmly, but the Minister clasped the PM’s hand a bit too tightly.

Looking up into the Iranian’s eyes, Attworthy raised one eyebrow.

Early in his time in office, he had learned that sometimes his visitors employed subtle nonverbal cues to indicate there was something else they wished to discuss, most often in private.

Tohjani confirmed this with another squeeze and then removed his hand from the PM’s.

Taking the hint, and with the briefest glance at his bodyguards, Attworthy addressed his guest.

“Oh, by the way, Minister Tohjani, I have been wanting to show you a rare piece of 7th-century Persian pottery recently donated to the Royal Collection.

“Of course, we can’t keep something so precious here at the residence, so it will be transferred to the British Museum shortly. But if you would like a private look–it is exquisite and in perfect condition–I would welcome the opportunity to show you.”

With a mixture of a smile and relief, Tohjani beamed brightly.

“It would be an honor to see this priceless artifact of my country’s illustrious past.”

Without another word, Attworthy executed a maneuver he had perfected over his first three years at Number 10 Downing Street. He put an arm on the shoulder of the Minister, guiding him rapidly across the room to a door hastily opened by Alicia Woerner and just as quickly closed behind them.

Neither the dignitaries in the room nor the Revolutionary Guard officer had time to register what had happened, before the two world leaders were gone from sight, secreted in the Prime Minister’s private inner office.

The IRGC man instantly made for the door, but the PM’s personal assistant barred the way, and one of the security men joined her, making it clear no one was passing him.

With a fierce glare the Iranian officer stopped and attempted to station himself as close to the door as he could, all the while trying to preserve his dignity as he wondered how he would explain this embarrassing turn of events to his superiors.

Sensing what the guard was thinking, Met Officer Blaine leaned in conspiratorially and spoke sympathetically. “He does this sometimes, and we have been strictly ordered to ignore it. I’ve found it’s best to simply forget this happened. They’ll both come back out in a minute or two with bleeding big smiles on their faces, talking about the goddamn pottery thing, and that’s all we’re ever to know.”

Thinking over the guard’s words, the IRGC officer sighed and relaxed a bit, realizing the man from Scotland Yard was informing him that nobody else was ever going to mention the breach of security and protocol, so he needn’t, either.

Attworthy and Tohjani stood facing each other.

In private, they had both relaxed their body language to an attitude of mutual trust and concern. The Prime Minister smiled at his long-time friend.

“Will the Ayatullah actually approve the treaty?” Attworthy asked.

“He says he will, but he wants to fast and pray for one week before issuing the fatwa.”

“I guess there’s really no point in asking, but does he appreciate the economic and trade advantages Iran will gain, not to mention greater regional security?”

“In my opinion, the Supreme Leader is eager to finish his work on earth and join the Prophet–peace be upon Him–in paradise. But there are many ambitious men surrounding him, representing countless self interests, who are lobbying, openly or clandestinely, to convince him not to agree.”

“Well, Hassan my old friend, we have done our best. And as we know, all the other nations will sign, regardless of what the Islamic Republic decides. The choice is not whether the accord will go into effect, but whether Iran will be left on the outside–isolated, and surrounded by treaty members. The result, as we all well know, would be economic disaster, the almost total loss of oil revenues, and an armed border on every side.”

Attworthy paused. He knew Tohjani was well aware of the consequences.

The older man nodded in acquiescence. “Yes, this is all true, Robert. And yes, The Sayyid has been fully informed of the repercussions of his failing to allow Iran to join the alliance.”

“Brilliant. So how can I help you? Why did you want to speak with me in private?”

The Foreign Minister’s body sagged with fatigue, and he sighed deeply but didn’t respond. His eyes bespoke some great sadness.

“Please, let’s sit down,” Attworthy offered. They sank into two overstuffed chairs positioned at right-angles to each other.

The PM leaned in and spoke in an affable tone. “Old friend, we have known each other for more than 20 years, since we were stationed together in Cairo. You are not yourself today. What is wrong, Hassan?”

Taking a deep breath, Tohjani began. “Robert, I have a son–my youngest, Bijan.” He paused, and the Prime Minister noticed a tear take shape in the corner of one eye.

“I’ve heard of him, but we have never met.”

Nodding, the Iranian continued. “He has always been his mother’s favorite. As the last of four sons, his prospects in the world are somewhat limited, but he is quite intelligent–even scholarly. He is 22 years old and in his last year at university in Tehran, and he hopes to attend graduate school at Oxford next year.”

“He sounds promising.”

Tohjani shook his head sadly. “They will never let him leave the country.”

“Why not?” The PM was genuinely surprised, since the Foreign Minister was the fourth-highest-ranking official in the government.

“Because...” He sighed and looked downward. “Because he is gay, and he refuses to marry a woman.”

Stunned, Attworthy leaned in closer and put a hand on his friend’s arm. “I’m so sorry to hear this, Hassan. Is he safe?”

Tohjani shrugged. “For the moment. As long as I am in my position, he will not be arrested or imprisoned or...” He shuddered as he spoke the next words. “I’m sure you are aware that, under Shari’a law, the penalty for homosexuality in Iran is...” he choked on the words. “Death by stoning.”

The PM nodded solemnly and the two sat in silence for a moment.

Attworthy continued, grasping for hope. “So, is Bijan free to move around the country?”

Defeated, Tohjani shook his head in resignation. “He has a bodyguard with him at all times. The guard even sleeps in Bijan’s room–to make sure he has no... visitors, other than my wife and myself.”

“Well, at least he’s safe, for now.”

Anger filled Tohjani’s voice. “But if this treaty is not approved, Robert, I will surely lose my office and perhaps go to prison myself, and my son...” He choked on his last words.

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom looked into the eyes of the aging diplomat. “Hassan, you have devoted your life to serving your country, and always with its best interests foremost in mind. Surely your distinguished service counts for something.”

Tohjani scoffed. “You don’t know the young guard. They’re too young to remember the old times, and the bullshit they are taught in school these days is a pack of lies, crafted and tightly controlled by the Revolutionary Guard. They have never been told that our nations were once allies, although the relationship was admittedly rather one-sided. They are cut off from any true information or world news. They can’t begin to imagine what life would be like if there were war between our countries.”

He choked back a sob. “But none of it means anything to me any more. I fear for my son–and for my wife, if anything should happen to him.”

Attworthy considered this for a long minute. Finally, he inquired, “Are your other sons living in Iran?”

“No, they are in various Muslim countries around the world. They almost never return to the Islamic Republic.”

“How long will you be in London?”

“Until the end of the week. I am meeting with European ambassadors and attending a couple of receptions.”

“Good. Let me see what can be done.” The PM stood. “I assume I can still reach you in the old way?”

“As far as I am aware, the Revolutionary Guard has no idea of the back channel’s existence.” Hassan rose to his feet and the two old friends embraced.

With an encouraging smile, Attworthy said, “Very well, I will get on it right away. In the meantime, you must have hope, my friend. And remember, as they say in the U.S.–it ain’t over til the fat lady sings!”

Tohjani laughed a bit too loudly, indicating they should rejoin the others before the Revolutionary Guard officer got too antsy.

Opening the door and allowing the Iranian to exit first, Attworthy used his large bulk to make peeking into the private chamber impossible–a wise move, since there was no Persian pottery to be seen.

Turning to face the British PM with a diplomatic smile, Tohjani said, “Thank you again, Prime Minister. It is truly a remarkable exemplar of the art of my ances­tors. I am delighted it will be on public display.”

“And you may rest assured its provenance and history will be truthfully represented, Minister.”

The two shook hands and the visiting contin­gent was ushered out of The Study. The PM rarely accompa­nied any guest past the office door. A coterie of minor functionaries would now take charge of them and deliver them to black limousines waiting outside on Downing Street.

No sooner were the diplomatic party out of the room and the door closed, than PM Robert Attworthy informed his team of the private conversation as suc­cinctly and thoroughly as he expected them to provide information to him.

“Whew!” Chief of Staff Robinson Daley exhaled. “This is a damned risky business, sir.”

They all resumed their former seats on the two facing couches. Attworthy perched on the arm of his chair.

“Observations?” He inquired, looking at the undersecretaries of State and Defence.

Oliver Haddon from MOD began, “Well, since he can’t travel outside Iran and is chaperoned every minute, night and day, this sounds like a deep cover extraction. Such an operation requires timing and plan­ning. We will have to bring in a Special Ops team, or perhaps MI6.”

Attworthy turned and nodded to Alicia Woerner, who picked up the phone and spoke into it softly.

Virginia Cutler from the Foreign Office chimed in with a stern warning. “This has to happen in such a way that it cannot ever be traced back to this country. It would be seen as tantamount to an armed invasion.”

The PM nodded solemnly.

She continued, “And I don’t have to tell you about the impact of a botched rescue on COMEPH. If any of this goes down before the treaty is signed, we can forget about their cooperation... but even if it happens afterward, and it pisses off the Iranians, they’ll tear the deal up before the ink is dry.”

From the doorway, they heard a familiar voice, “Therefore, what we need is a disappearance that can’t be traced to any nation or person–ideally something so undetectable they won’t even realize it happened, for some time at least.”

They all turned toward the speaker as MI6 Director Sir Hamilton Armistead, OBE, DSC, entered The Study. Not invited to the meeting, he had stationed himself out of sight in an anteroom in case he were needed. Alicia’s brief phone message had summoned him.

“You’re right, Ham,” the PM stood and shook his hand. “Sounds like this is right up your alley.”

Armistead moved to his customary seat at the far end of one couch. The seating plan was no accident–covert ops needed to be kept as distant from the PM as possible, even when there were only insiders in the room.

“Islamic custom requires a body be buried before sundown on the day of death,” Armistead began.

“What? You’re going to kill the boy? Or the Minister?” Attworthy interjected, shocked.

“No, sir. But your window of opportunity fits well with a new drug we have developed. It makes a person look and feel dead for 24 to 36 hours. Unless they cut him open to do an autopsy, it would fool any coroner in the world.”

Chief of Staff Robinson Daley joined in, curious. “So you get him to look like he’s dead, and he’s buried–let’s hope they don’t go in for cremations–and then what? Sneak back into the cemetery and dig him up?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Armistead observed craftily, “but the fewer people who know the details, the easier it will be to shield them from detection.”

“I assume we have agents in Iran who are capable of doing... whatever you’re suggesting,” Virginia Cutler asked tentatively, pretty sure she already knew the answer, but feeling the question had to be asked and answered.

“You may assume so, Ms. Cutler.” Armistead flashed her his winningest smile.

Realizing that a private conversation needed to follow, Daley stood and addressed the Prime Minister on behalf of the team, “That’s all we have for now, Sir. We don’t need to hash out the particulars, which I suppose will require some time to be finalized.”

“Thank you, Rob,” the PM agreed. “I’ll call everyone back together when we have anything concrete to discuss. I need not remind you all–this goes no further than the people in this room.”

As the group made their way out of The Study, Attworthy spoke quietly, “Ham, a word, please.”

The MI6 Director turned back to the PM, who was now seated at his desk. “You’re quite right, Director. We don’t need to know the details, but I am interested in one thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“This 24-hour looks-like-you’re-dead drug... what’s it called?”

Armistead pursed his lips, judiciously considering his words.

“Prime Minister, we don’t give catchy pharmaceutical names to covert drugs, but it’s officially identified as BTL-17A, though some of the developers unofficially refer to it as SOMNOS. I can tell you it does a bloody good job of mimicking death. No doctor on earth can tell otherwise...” He hesitated.

“But?”

Armistead admitted, “But the recovery has been a bit unpredictable.”

“How unpredictable?”

“Well, sir, we’ve only used it on a few test subjects in a lab, plus three agents in the field. They all woke up over the next 12 to 36 hours.”

Attworthy’s head came up sharply, and his sharp gaze demanded an explanation.

The Director continued, “Only, some of them experienced pain, seizures, and other physical reactions.”

“Is that all?”

“No, sir. Early on in the testing, two of the subjects suffered brain damage from hypoxia–lack of oxygen–likely from an incorrect dosage. They are both being kept comfortable in a secure facility where they are receiving the best treatment we can provide, but it doesn’t look like either of them will ever leave the hospital.”

“Do they have families?” The PM was worried.

“All volunteer test subjects were selected because they were unmarried and had few living family members. What relatives the two had have been informed they died in a plane crash at sea, and they have received generous compensation for their loss.”

“So, let me see if I can figure the odds. How many were tested?”

“A dozen, sir.”

“And three field agents?”

“Right.”

“So, fifteen human subjects, and setting aside for a moment the pain and suffering of some of them, two out of the fifteen remain permanently brain damaged?”

Armitage nodded solemnly.

The PM did a quick calculation. “Which makes a thirteen percent likelihood something untoward could happen to Tohjani’s son Bijan, correct?”

“Based on current results, yes, sir.”

“Current results?”

“Sir, if we conclude that this is the path we’re going to take, we will ramp up testing right away on several more volunteers. We will select men Bijan’s age, height, weight, body type–and ethnicity, if we can.”

“How long will that take?”

“How soon do you need the answer?”

“Today is Monday. Minister Tohjani is returning to Iran on Friday. We’ll need to tell him what we plan by then... and get his approval if he’ll give it.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir. I think we should have the necessary results within 72 hours.”

Attworthy nodded and stood, turning his back and gazing out the window, indicating that the meeting was over and the Director should get to work.

Armistead left without another word, walked purposefully to his limo and headed to MI6 headquarters in Vauxhall with lights and sirens.

More than three thousand miles away, Bijan Tohjani lay in the late evening dusk in his room. The window above his bed was open, and he could smell the pine trees and jasmine flowers in the garden outside. He felt the warm breeze on his bare chest. This was his bed, his room, the place he had occupied since he was a boy.

Now he was a man–a man who loved other men and had sex with them.

Deprived of contact with even a casual lover, Bijan felt his cock harden and throb, aching for release. He dared not touch himself because an IRGC guard was seated in a chair at the foot of his bed.

Turning to look through the barred opening, he could see the darkening sky filling with brilliant stars.

Momentarily forgetting the guard in the room with him, he sighed and whispered to himself. “If only I could wrench out those bars and fly up into the sky. I would give my life to be free of this misery.”

“You will never be free! You will be tried for your sin and put to death, as Shari’a law dictates. Then you will burn in hell for ever, you damned evakhahar.” The guard spit out the cruel words.

“Fuck you.”

The guard jumped to his feet and roughly punched the young man hard in the stomach. “You fucking gay bastard. I would kill you myself right now, but Allah’s law must be followed. You will die, and I will gladly throw the first stone.”

Bijan shuddered at the picture–he would be buried up to his waist in a pit and men would surround him, throwing rocks at him over and over until he died. He prayed it wouldn’t take long. He rolled toward the wall and lay, trying to hide his tears.

The guard spit on his back and returned to his chair, breathing hard with rage and hatred.