The Knight's Tale - 6. Chapter 6

It was mid-afternoon when Henry finally awoke. Frowning at the bright sunlight peaking around the drapes, he cursed out loud. “Bollocks! So much for adjusting to the goddamn time difference.”

He kicked off the silky duvet, stood, and stretched. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, scratching his bare ass as he moved. Pulling the drapes apart, he peered out at the city, squinting his eyes at the brilliant daylight.

A lush, green park filled the foreground, and the imposing Milad Tower rose about a mile to the east. A satin-upholstered daybed in the center of the window invited him to stretch out and enjoy the sight, but he’d been lying down for too long and preferred to stand.

As he looked out over the city, he thought, One would think Tehran is much like any metropolis, anywhere in the world–peaceful and civilized. But the truth is, the country’s a fucking theocracy–a prison for its people that uses secret police to keep them subjugated. Oh, and the fucking arseholes hate gays.

Turning his back on the vista, Henry walked across the room and helped himself to another Scotch.

As he drank, he chuckled at how MI6 had told him to walk around starkers in his room. Being forced to look at a naked man would offend the officers who were watching and listening, and it might make them turn their eyes away at a strategic moment.

He smiled wickedly, deciding to have a nice, long wank after supper and hope his watchers squirmed in discomfort during the show.

 

At 6:00 PM he ordered room service and put on a dressing gown when his meal arrived. The deliveryman was in his late twenties and quite good-looking.

Henry brazenly examined the waiter up and down, but got no reaction. The man was probably IRGC, and Henry was tempted to flirt with him but decided it might be going too far.

After a satisfying supper of steak and potatoes, Henry turned on the television. He could find only one English-language channel, which was all-news, censored and rewritten by the Iranian régime.

A full belly and a few more drinks, and Henry felt he could go back to sleep and last through the night. The bedside clock showed midnight.

He lay back on his bed, stretched out, and reached for his penis.

Slowly stroking himself erect, he lazily teased and played with himself using his right hand, while poking three fingers deep into his bum with his left.

He smiled as he slid the foreskin up and down the head of his cock. It was a feeling that always gave him a feeling of comfort and security, ever since the first time he had masturbated as a 12-year old lad.

He felt like asking aloud, “Enjoying the show, boys? Anybody feel like joining me? Could I have a copy of the videotape as a souvenir of my only pleasant time in your goddamn fucking country? This is probably the most fun I’ll have here.” But he resisted the temptation.

He continued for fifteen minutes before ejaculating a hot pool of semen onto his chest and belly.

After wiping himself clean with tissues, he rolled over onto his side. Again, he was tempted to speak up, “I trust you chappies relished that as much as I did. Nighty-night, boys, and fuck you all.” But he had to keep up the pretense that he didn’t know they were watching and recording everything.

 

The next day, Henry visited the Director of the National Museum and carried on the business he was purportedly there to do. He almost felt sorry for the man, who was going to be sorely disappointed when he finally realized no priceless etching was going to come to his museum.

The friendly director took Henry out to dinner with some colleagues from the art department. Thanks to his excellent education and a quick refresher on Rembrandt from his handlers in Vauxhall, he was able to hold his own in a somewhat technical discussion of 17th-century art.

When he returned to his room at half midnight, he immediately realized someone had searched his things–again. Henry gave no indication he noticed anything.

My goddamn watchers are sending me a signal to say they’re just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

 

With the next morning free, Henry opted to use it to familiarize himself with the nearby streets and alleys–he never knew when a tactical retreat might be called for.

Descending to the front entrance of the Espinas Palace Hotel, he stepped out onto a circular driveway with a small lake in the middle. He was astonished to see, to the south, several dinosaur heads rising above the buildings. His room faced east, toward Milad Tower and Conference Centre, and he had arrived at the hotel at night, so this spectacle was completely unexpected.

Curious, he crossed the drive and followed a sidewalk that passed under a busy expressway. Emerging from the pedestrian tunnel, he approached a large public park.

The sign, in Farsi, Arabic, and English, announced

Parvaz Park
Tehran’s Jurassic Park.

Strolling through the beautiful greenery and stopping often to read the plaques describing the 32 re-creations of some of the largest creatures ever to inhabit the earth, Harry was captivated by the whole idea.

But, his threat radar always on heightened alert, he soon realized that he had seen the same two men at several of his stops.

They were keeping distant from one another–in order for one to drop off if he was spotted, leaving the other in pursuit.

I guess I’m not surprised that they are following me everywhere. The motherfuckers want to make sure I don’t carry off one of their dinosaurs or try to shake them by boring them to death in this lovely park.

Harry didn’t recognize the men–they weren’t the same two who had shepherded him at the airport, but he was certain they were Revolutionary Guards.

I don’t really have any place I need to be for several hours. I think I’ll give them a bit of a what-for, trying to keep up with me.

He looked around and smiled when he saw the Hossein Family Garden Restaurant.

He entered and was seated at an outdoor table.

Perfect. They can clearly see me... for now.

The waiter took his order–in English, no less–and was about to return to the kitchen.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me where to find the WCs?”

“W... sorry?”

“Oh shit. I don’t know what you call them. Restrooms? Bathrooms? Toilets?”

“Ah, toilet–kojast.” The man indicated a door into the dining room and told Harry to pass through there, head to the back, and look on his left.

Thanking the waiter, Harry placed his napkin on the chair and followed the directions to the men’s room.

As he hoped, the WCs were right next to the door into the kitchen. Feigning being lost, he stumbled in and quickly located the back door.

Heads looked up, but he smiled and shrugged, held up a pack of cigarettes, and pointed to the exit. The busy kitchen staff ignored him and went back to work.

He stepped out the back entrance and got his bearings. He lit up and looked at his watch.

Ten minutes should be long enough to give them a shit-fit.

The last he had seen of his minders, one was directly across the street, seated on a park bench, and the other was about a block to the right of the restaurant, standing at a bus stop but never getting on one.

Let’s hope the fuckers are still right where I last saw them.

Grinding out his third Gauloise on the ground, he headed to the left and came around the building. As soon as he knew he was in view, his walking became nonchalant. He casually sauntered to the front of the restaurant and reclaimed his table. The waiter was standing there with Henry’s order, looking partly pissed off and partly bemused by the stupid behavior of the fucking Englishman.

Henry didn’t dare look toward either minder. He was quite sure they were in a panic, realizing that they had lost him, and only by luck had he returned to his table. He took his seat and started on his plate of Persian-style chicken kabobs on wooden skewers–with French fries and a little bowl of sour cream and one of lime-saffron mayonnaise.

“You have chosen well, My Lord. Joujeh chini is a specialty of this restaurant. How did you know what to order?”

Without looking up at the man towering over him, Henry replied, “The menu has pictures.”

“Of course. May I join you?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Not really.” The IRGC officer who had interrogated Henry at the airport pulled out a chair and sat at a right angle to him. “That was a cute trick you pulled.”

His Lordship finally looked up and grinned at the Guard. “You think so? I hope your minders didn’t shit their pants.”

“They were not meant to be invisible, merely to make sure you know that you are under observation.”

“I got the picture. Only, when I went to the Men’s Room and realized how easy it would be to slip out the back, I had to play a little joke on them.”

“You would not have gone far. I was covering that exit myself.”

“Ah. Clever of you.”

“So, are you just out to look at dinosaurs, or are you headed somewhere?”

“Oh, just getting my bearings in your beautiful city.”

“Do you suppose that you can just wander anywhere you want?”

“Why should I not suppose that... er... you know, you never told me your name.”

“No. I didn’t.” The Guards officer regarded Henry as though he could see right through him with his piercing gaze. Then the man relaxed a little. “I guess, between covert officers like the two of us, names should be known. I am Colonel Abdallah al-Khamenei.”

Henry paused. Should I acknowledge the bit about covert officers or ignore it?

He decided on the latter. “Al-Khamenei? Like the Ayatullah?”

“A distant relative. But I’m sure you will find that out as soon as you look me up, now that you know my name.”

“I suppose that would make sense.”

“What do you say we cut through the bullshit? Why are you here?”

Henry feigned a look of innocence and surprise. “I thought we went over all that. I represent...”

The colonel cut him off. “I said no more fucking bullshit.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right. It’s unnecessary for both of us to maintain the façade of polite competition.” Henry looked the man in the eye. “I assume you’re aware of the COMEPH treaty that is to be signed in a little over a week?”

“I might be.”

“Indeed.” Henry’s smile was patronizing. “My sources tell me your distant relative is about to give his assent to Iran joining the alliance.”

“What of it?”

“My government is also aware of... certain factions... here, who are vigorously opposed to the treaty, and I was sent to see what I could find out about said factions.”

“And do what?”

“Just report. I’m obviously small fry.”

“I doubt MI6 would send a small fry to do your job.”

“MI6? No, you’ve got it all wrong, Colonel. I’m from the Foreign Office. I’m a rank amateur, compared with you and your organization.”

“My organization?”

“I’ve been told the Quds Force is foremost among opponents of COMEPH.”

The Guards officer sat back in his chair and smiled ironically. “That’s a clever package. Neat but believable. I’m almost convinced.”

Henry shrugged. “Truth is stranger than fiction–and usually less likely to be believed.”

The two sat in brief silence.

“Colonel al-Khamenei?”

“Yes?”

“Are we waiting for someone or something?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think it’s time for me to return to my hotel and get ready for my meeting at the British Embassy this afternoon.”

“Meeting?”

“Yes. Like you, I have to report in from time to time, or my people are likely to assume the worst.”

“You are quite close to experiencing the worst.”

“In that case, I think it imperative that I conclude my strolling about and concentrate on the business at hand.”

The officer thought about it for a moment. “I suppose, since we are watching you at all times, it doesn’t make much difference where you are.” He paused. “Just one more thing.”

“Colonel?”

“It would be appreciated if you would wear some clothing when you’re in your hotel room.”

Henry broke into a wide smile. “I’ll see what I can do.” He signaled the waiter and handed him his credit card.

The colonel got up and once again towered over His Lordship. “I’m sure we will meet again.”

“I hope under pleasant circumstances.”

“Doubtful. Oh, and one more thing. Give my regards to Minister Tohjani. He is a distant relative, too.”

“Of course.”

The IRGC officer turned and left. A quick look around confirmed to Henry that the two minders were still with him, although they were now being obvious. He picked up his card and receipt and strode straight back to the Espinas Palace.

 

When Henry entered his room, he saw that the message light on the phone was blinking. Picking up the receiver, he pressed the playback button.

The message was terse and professional. “Henry, this is Alex. I have some news for you. Perhaps when you’re finished with your meeting this afternoon, you can ring me back. For now, don’t worry. I’ll have more information when you call.”

Stunned, Henry deleted the message, which he was sure had already been intercepted by the IRGC, and hung up the phone.

Alex wouldn’t call unless something very serious was happening. Damn! I hope the fuckers haven’t already arrested the kid or killed him.

He didn’t have a secure phone with him, so he understood the duke’s reference to calling from the British Embassy. He hurried to shower and dress for the meeting.

 

An hour later, Henry–introducing himself using his title as Viscount Lockham of Westermere– arrived at Her Majesty’s Embassy, where he was to meet the courier who would accompany Bijan and him on the first leg of the extraction.

The receptionist greeted him politely.

“Welcome, Your Lordship... There is a message for you.” She handed him a folded slip of paper, which read “The ambassador is waiting for you, so that you may return your phone call of this morning.”

A uniformed officer appeared and escorted him to the ambassador’s office.

Sir Philip Percy, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Islamic Republic, rose as Henry entered. “Lord Lockham, it’s a pleasure to meet you, but the circumstances are unfortunate. Here is my secure phone. I’ll be in the next room.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Henry picked up the phone and immediately a voice answered, “Just a moment, My Lord. I’ll have London on the line shortly.”

In less than a minute, Henry heard a few clicks, followed by Duke Alexander’s voice. “Harry, your father is in hospital. He has had a heart attack. I didn’t want to alarm you, because he’s conscious and responsive, so the doctors think they caught it in time. I’m at the hospital, and there’s someone here who would like to speak with you.”

There was a little commotion as Alex handed off the phone.

“Henry?” It was his mother. “I’m here with your father, and the doctors assure me that this is a minor event. I was so reluctant even to let you know, because I’m sure your... business... is quite important.” She gave Alexander a reproachful look.

“Don’t give it a thought, Mother. I’m grateful to you and Alex for contacting me. Are you quite certain it’s not serious? You don’t need to spare me the details.”

“Oh, no, Henry. I’m telling you precisely what the doctors have said.”

“And how are you handling it?”

“Oh, you know me. Rising to the occasion, as ever. The plan is to bring your father back to Westermere for a time of rest and recuperation. His local physician has been informed and will be there to meet us, tomorrow or the next day.”

Henry reflected on his mother’s unflappable fortitude. Brought up as the daughter of a duke, she had learned early on how to accept bad news and quickly move to do whatever was required to respond. He was sure she was worried, but he knew full well she would never show it.

“Mother, I can come home right away, if you think...” He knew this was not true and also knew she would refuse.

“No, no, Henry. Your work is most important, and your father’s health is generally good, so let’s just do what the doctors order and try to keep him confined as best we can.”

Henry chuckled, thinking how unconfinable his father was. “I know you’ll do your best. My thoughts and prayers are with you and Father. Now, might I have a brief word with Alexander?”

Lady Elizabeth said good-bye and handed the phone back to the Assistant Director of MI6. She gave him a stern look that meant, “Whatever you say, don’t upset him.”

Alex took the phone. “Yes, my boy?”

“Alex, I appreciate all you are doing for Mother and me, but if you are withholding even the slightest detail to spare me from worrying, you know I will not look kindly on it.”

“Harry, I would not do that, no matter where you were or what you were doing. We have the doctors’ assurances, and we must rely upon them. Please try to focus on... well, you know what.”

Henry concluded the call and put the phone back in its cradle. A moment later, Sir Philip returned.

“I’ve been informed of the nature of your call and your father’s sudden illness. I do hope all will be well with the earl and Lady Elizabeth.”

“It would appear so. They are both in good hands.”

“Do you feel able to continue with your mission here?”

“My mission?”

“Oh, rest assured I know none of the details. I just want to offer you the opportunity to do whatever you deem necessary.”

“Thank you, Ambassador, but I am sure my presence there would not contribute anything to the treatment or recovery of my father.”

Quite the contrary. Father and I cannot be in the same room for five minutes without sparring over any and all subjects.

He continued, “I should like to proceed with the business that brought me here.”

“Of course.” The ambassador pressed a button on his desk and the door opened. With a few more pleasantries, he shook Henry’s hand, and the uniformed officer silently led out of the office.

 

His Lordship was conveyed to a well-appointed waiting room, and a secretary soon showed him into a small office.

The elegant room had two tall oak doors on opposite sides, and as the woman left via the one through which they had entered, the portal on the other side of the room opened. Henry’s eyes widened in surprise as he was greeted by a familiar voice.

“Hello, Harry, you old sodder. Are you balls-up yet?”

“Winnie!” He flew into the arms of the man he had met–and so much more–at Coy’s.

The erstwhile lovers hugged in silence. After a minute, both stepped back, a little nonplussed by Henry’s abrupt expression of affection.

Blushing, Henry apologized, “Sorry, but I’m bloody glad you’re the one.”

“MI6 wouldn’t allow me to say anything, in case you told the Prime Minister to go fuck himself.”

“The thought did cross my mind.” They laughed.

“Well, I’m damn pleased you didn’t. I’ve always known you were the man for this job.”

“Indeed? Why in hell would you think that?”

Winnie laughed. “Because you’re ballsy enough and clever enough and devious enough to take on something like this.”

Henry chuckled. “Or perhaps because you enjoyed getting it off with me and were hoping to have another innings?”

Winnie smiled and nodded. “One of the perks of my job is I sometimes get to bang the shit of somebody who’s quite handy in bed.”

“Thanks... I think.”

Winnie laughed and indicated that Henry should take the chair facing the imposing desk, while he took the seat behind it. They continued their discussion and confirmed the details of the plan.

Henry inquired, “So you will be conducting us home?”

Winnie shook his head. “Just as far as Babol Sar. There, I’ll hand you over to an agent who keeps an eye on Caspian Sea shipping and smuggling.”

“And he’ll take us...”

“To Astara, a seaport in Azerbaijan. From there, another man will take you to Lankaran airport, about an hour inland. You will board a Turkish Airlines jet, but there is no direct flight. You will have to land in Riyadh and then continue on a second flight to Istanbul.”

“I’m relieved our lives will be in your hands for what I suppose will be the most perilous portion of the journey.”

“You’ll be in good hands.” Winnie promised.

“I’d love to have those hands around my...” Henry teased.

“Whoa. Let’s stick to business!”

Winnie proceeded to hand over the SOMNOS and necessary paraphernalia to Henry, explaining how and when they were to be used. Henry was to give them to Bijan with the same careful instructions.

“Do you think the kid will be brave enough to inject himself with this shit?” Henry wondered.

Winnie chuckled. “Let’s hope so. Otherwise, you’ll have to find a way to do it for him, which I imagine might not be easy.”

 

Friday evening, a taxi deposited Henry at the Foreign Minister’s mansion on Fereshteh Avenue in the Elahieh district of Tehran. He had been pleased to learn that the address was on the north side of the city, which put him a little nearer to his escape route over the mountains to the sea.

A servant opened the door and bowed respectfully, but his place was quickly taken by Dr Hassan Tohjani himself.

“Do come in, Lord Lockham. It is a pleasure to meet you. How is your dear father, the Earl?”

“Thank you, Minister. I’m delighted to be here, and Father sends his warmest regards.” Henry thought it best not to let the Revolutionary Guard overhear any details of his father’s sudden illness.

The conversation was painfully stilted, since both men were aware they were being recorded and possibly watched, too.

Tohjani conducted Henry through the spacious manor to a sizeable plein-aire room. The views of the Alborz mountains on all sides were spectacular.

Sensing Henry’s awe at the scenery, his host volunteered, “We are situated at the foot of Mount Tochal. There is a ski resort at the top, and a lift takes you up there from Tehran.”

Henry craned his neck. “Yes. I can see the lift. Brilliant!”

The Iranian chuckled. “We do have a few modern conveniences here.”

Henry blushed and sputtered, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. Only I’m amazed we’re still in Tehran.”

“This was once a separate city called Shemiran, which was incorporated into Tehran after the 1979 Revolution. Ayatullah Khomeini (may God have mercy upon him) grew up not far from here.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a strikingly beautiful tall woman and a drop-dead handsome young man. As he rose to his feet, Henry knew at once who they were.

Tohjani made the introduction. “May I present my wife, Asenath, and my youngest son, Bijan.”

To his wife, he made a formal introduction. “My dear, may I present His Lordship, Henry Sandringham, Viscount Lockham of Westermere.”

“Madame Tohjani.” Henry nodded his head crisply, as if greeting a Royal.

“Lord Lockham.” The lady smiled graciously and took one step back, allowing her son to approach their guest.

Extending his hand, Henry took a long, lustful look.

The young man was about five-six and 10 stone. His black hair and eyes against his light tan skin lent him an air of mystery. His black beard was well-trimmed, and his muscular physique bespoke hours spent working out–probably the only release he was allowed.

As he shook Henry’s hand, the two locked eyes, and His Lordship felt his stomach tighten with desire.

“Bijan.”

“Sir.”

“Call me Harry, please.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Harry.” He spoke with a proper upper-class British accent.

Henry had to admit he was more than delighted at the sight before him. He felt a stirring in his loins, but reminded himself Bijan’s life was in grave danger, and Henry was here to rescue the young stud.

Still and all, we could have great fun, you and I, Bijan. Perhaps we’ll someday have the opportunity...