The Knight's Tale - 7. Chapter 7

Henry and his hosts took seats on plush couched that were covered in a soft linen that was cool to the touch, despite the warm evening. The room was open to the sky and the lush garden, which extended a hundred metres up a slight slope to the edge of a wood.

The décor was a pleasant mélange of European and Oriental. Elegant Persian carpets were spread on the terrazzo floor. Ceiling fans above them spun leisurely. The scent of pine and jasmine filled the air.

Servants came in with tall glasses of iced tea and appetizers. Henry tried in vain to identify which of them was the IRGC watcher assigned to keep his eye on the family.

Hassan asked a few more questions about Henry’s family, and Bijan asked about life in London. Asenath was gracious but silent.

I wonder if women are permitted to speak to men outside their own family. I sense she has a lot to say, but is holding it in.

Noting his guest’s curious look toward the stunning woman, Tohjani explained, “My wife is Egyptian. Her family is descended from Cleopatra and Marc Antony.”

“I love Egypt. Such a beautiful and historic country.”

“Iran–Persia–conquered the Egyptians three times.” Bijan interjected proudly.

“And don’t forget–Britain ruled both of them for more than 75 years in the 19th and 20th centuries.” Henry grinned playfully.

“But...” The young man was clearly ready to dive into a full-on debate.

“Bijan. Enough, please.” His father diplomatically cut off his response.

The father and son exchanged a subtle look, telling Henry they were putting on a show for whomever was recording this evening’s conversations. The Minister’s son turned to Henry and smiled slyly.

His Lordship nodded back silently. He couldn’t help liking the young chap–heaps. It was always a bad idea to become too attached to the subject one is transporting, but knowing Bijan was gay and finding him so good-looking was clearly a distraction.

I’ll have to work harder to maintain a professional distance from my charge, or this could all end in a fucking shit-storm.

Supper was served at a long glass-topped table on the other side of the open-air room, and the conversation was pointedly formal and innocent.

When the servants had cleared all the dishes, the lady of the house excused herself.

“I’m sure you gentlemen want to carry on your discussions. I am needed elsewhere at this time.”

The three men got to their feet. Asenath kissed her son on both cheeks, nodded respectfully to her husband and Henry, and disappeared into the massive building.

“Shall we walk in the garden?” Hassan suggested with a studied insouciance.

“I’d love to.” Henry replied, trying not to sound too eager.

“Bijan, would you like to join us?”

“Yes, Father. I would.”

The three men disciplined themselves to stroll casually across the green expanse of lawn in the general direction of a small grove of trees. They paused occasionally, as Henry's host pointed out something of interest. When they were beyond sight of the house, Hassan halted and carefully glanced around.

He quietly informed Henry, “Your operatives tell me they have swept this area for bugs, and we are beyond the prying eyes of the IRGC here.”

Henry took a relieved breath. “I don’t think I could have stood another moment of the tension.”

“The bullshit was getting pretty deep,” Bijan laughed.

“So it was,” his father agreed with a chuckle.

Minister Tohjani reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar case and offered one to Henry, who gratefully held it to his nose. “Cuban?”

“Dominican Republic–among the best in the world.” Hassan selected one for himself.

Bijan lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. “Turkish,” he said, exhaling with a smile.

“Thank God that the Prophet (peace be upon him) only forbade alcohol, and not tobacco, too,” The Minister said with a smile.

“My hotel room has a well-stocked bar, so the prohibition is in limited effect in some places in your country.”

Bijan opined, “Your watchers hope you will get drunk and become careless and reveal your true purpose in being here.”

“It would take all the liquor in the room, plus a hell of a lot more, to get me that pissed!”

The three men smoked in silence for a few minutes. The night had grown cool and quiet.

Tohjani raised his eyes to Bijan, giving the youth a reassuring smile. Turning, he addressed Henry. “I suppose you had better explain what you intend to do to rescue my son.”

Taking a deep breath, he began. “The plan is fairly simple, but rather dangerous.”

“We expected no less.”

“Your son is going to die of a drug overdose, which will appear to be a desperate reaction to the cruel treatment he is receiving at the hands of your government.”

“What the fuck?” Bijan sputtered. His impeccable English clearly included a full vocabulary of curse words, probably gleaned from American movies, which were officially banned in Iran but extremely popular among the wealthy.

Hassan spoke quietly to calm his son. “Let us hear him out. This probably isn’t what it appears to be.”

“You are correct, Minister. The appearance is a deception, but what happens must absolutely be believable and not rouse any suspicions.”

“I don’t take drugs,” Bijan insisted.

“Good thing, because if you did, they might interfere with the one you are going to take.”

“What one is that, my friend?” Hassan asked apprehensively.

“It’s called SOMNOS, and it mimics death perfectly. The drug has been thoroughly tested. Some side effects are possible, but the concoction is generally felt to be safe and effective.”

“How does this drug... mimic death?” Bijan sounded nervous.

“Quite well indeed, not to put too fine a point on it. You will go into a sort of hibernation, to the point where you will appear to stop breathing and your heartbeat will be undetectable. It’s similar to what can happen when someone drowns in ice-cold water. Any doctor examining you would not hesitate to declare you deceased.”

“But I won’t... actually... be dead?”

“No. You’ll be in a very deep sleep.”

“Holy shit.”

“How long does this ‘sleep’ last?” his worried father inquired.

“Up to 36 hours, but we don’t expect to need so long.”

“No?”

“No, Minister. As I understand, Islamic custom requires a body be buried by sunset on the day of death.”

“Such is Shari’a law, but the Guard will be suspicious, so who knows whether they will respect tradition or not?”

“Quite so. For that very reason, the effect lasts up to a day and a half, in case they should delay the burial.”

Bijan was pale. “For up to 36 hours, I’ll be... hibernating? Not really dead?”

“Such is the plan, Bijan.”

He turned to his father. “Mother will never be able to keep the secret.”

“Asenath will not be told until you are safely out of the country,” his father told him soothingly.

“She will be wild with grief.”

“She will be filled with joy when she learns you are safe.”

Henry proceeded to explain the plan.

Bijan would be provided the drugs kit, which he was to hide in his room until the next morning.

The kit contained a tiny bottle which held a residue of fentanyl. A syringe with a few drops of the drug in it was also included. He was to leave both in plain sight to mislead the Guard into thinking he had overdosed, accidentally or intentionally. Since suicide was forbidden by Shari’a law and would have prevented burial in the family tomb, it would fall to Hassan to insist on accidental death.

Henry took out a lancet like those used for blood sugar testing and pricked one of Bijan’s fingers. He then touched the fake fentanyl syringe to the drop of blood.

“That’s in case they try to dispute that you actually used the shit.”

In addition to the fentanyl, the kit contained an autoinjector loaded with one dose of SOMNOS, calibrated for Bijan’s age and weight. After pressing the business end against his thigh, he would have 60 seconds to conceal the injector in a spot where his father could retrieve it when he was brought in to see his son’s “dead” body.

“The tricky part is to persuade your guard to turn his attention elsewhere long enough for you to set the scene with the fentanyl and take the SOMNOS. Do you have any idea how you could manage that?”

The young man considered Henry’s question for a moment and then smiled.

“There’s fifteen minutes a day when the asshole leaves me alone in my room.”

“Oh?” Henry was surprised at so quick an answer. “When?”

Bijan grinned. Making a loose fist with his right hand, he mimicked a back and forth stroking motion.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” his father exclaimed in desperation.

“Yes, Father, I have needs and I meet them as best I can. The motherfucker cannot stand to be in the room with me while I pleasure myself. He’ll call me a name and leave the room in disgust. That’ll give us plenty of time for the... death-scene.”

The three men smoked in silence, taking in the grim scene.

Hassan turned to Henry. “What happens afterward?”

“Well, some things are beyond our control. What do you think the guard will do–and the people he calls?”

“I’m certain they’ll try to confirm Bijan is truly dead. Will your drug work?”

“In every test we’ve done, it has worked as intended. All signs of life are undetectable.” Henry paused. “Do you think they’ll take the body away? Insist on an autopsy?”

Tohjani shuddered but shook his head. “Disfiguring a deceased body is another thing prohibited by Shari’a law, but the IRGC has little respect for such laws.”

“You’ll have to make sure they follow them.”

“How?”

“Well, I hate to say this, but one benefit of your wife not being in on the deception is that she will be sincerely ridden with grief. Do you think she would make a scene if they tried to remove Bijan’s body? Would she make a lot of noise and fuss?”

“Sadly, I think she would.”

“Is there anyone you could call to come over? An imam, for example?”

“Ayatullah Shaikh Mirsami lives right next door and could be here in minutes.”

“Would he be any use against the Revolutionary Guard? Or would he go along with their wishes?”

“My neighbor is a well-respected Islamic legal scholar and a close advisor to the Grand Ayatullah. The Shaikh would absolutely forbid any violation of Islamic law, such as an autopsy, and he’d insist on fulfilling the requirement for burial by sundown.”

“This is entirely on point, excepting of course the part about your wife’s ordeal, for which I am deeply sorry. Let us hope she will forgive all of us when she learns Bijan is safe.”

“So what happens to... his body?”

“Your family mausoleum is on the property, I believe.”

“Yes. Not far from where we are standing now.”

“Brilliant. You will need to prepare... the body... for burial. Don’t leave anything out. Convey him to the crypt as you normally would, and say all the prayers. Is the door kept locked?”

“Yes. However, I’m certain the IRGC will station sentries at the tomb after he is buried. The Guard are always suspicious.”

“We have anticipated the guards. We will create a diversion–a distraction sufficient to draw them away, at least for the few minutes we require.”

“What will you do during those few minutes?”

“Um, this is a bit... indelicate, and I’m told it is also contrary to Shari’a law.”

“Go on, please.”

“We intend to substitute another body for Bijan’s.” He stopped, waiting for the objection that didn’t come. “If they check, they will find what appears to be your son, right where he is supposed to be.”

Hassan became concerned. “How will you obtain this dead body?”

“Some things you shouldn’t want to know, but I can assure you, no one will be murdered or otherwise harmed.”

“What happens to Bijan?”

“We will inject him with the antidote as quickly as it is safe to do so. Recovery takes only a short time, but your son will be weak and somewhat disoriented for a few hours. With help from the courier, we will be on our way north in no time at all.”

“Where will you go?”

“It would be best if you didn’t know the details...”

“Ah, yes. Understood.”

They were all silent again.

Finally, the Minister’s son spoke. “I don’t know if I want to go through with this.”

“Bijan!” His father pleaded.

“Listen please, Baba. Of course I want to live, I want to escape this nightmare, and I want to be free to be who I am.” A tear formed in his eye.

“But I hate to grieve Mother. What if she has a heart attack or goes into a deep depression? And what about you? What will happen to you if the Guard figure out what we’ve done? I don’t want to live in safety in the West if you, and perhaps mother, too, are being punished here.”

Henry spoke with compassion. “These are all well thought-out concerns, Bijan. We have anticipated most of them, except for your mother’s reaction.

“Your father is scheduled to attend a treaty signing in Istanbul. As long as the treaty is approved by your Grand Ayatullah, your parents will leave Iran for the meeting in a week.”

Turning to the father, he inquired, “I believe seven days of mourning is standard?”

“Yes.”

“After the period of grieving, there should be no impediment to your going to the conference. It occurred to us you might say you were going to stop in Egypt on the way home, in order for your wife to visit with her family.”

“Egypt has an extradition treaty with Iran. We would be sent back here.”

“Only if you actually go there. Turkey has no such arrangement, and you will only be there for two days at most. When the conference ends, you both will disappear and be reunited with Bijan in England–or wherever you want.”

“Father! You can’t leave our home. All our ancestors are buried here, and your job?”

“My dear son, none of that matters to me as much as your life... and your right to live as you must.”

Bijan’s eyes filled with tears. “You mean... you accept... my life? Me?”

“You are my son–of course I love you and accept you. I’m not sure I will ever be fully comfortable with your way of life, but I will try my best. I am intelligent enough to know you did not choose your sexuality, and it is not something you can give up and still be who you are.”

They fell into each other’s arms. Henry turned away and gazed up at the full moon, wiping away a most unprofessional tear.

Before they returned to the house, he showed Bijan how to use the SOMNOS injector and gave him the kit containing the decoy fentanyl.

As he got ready to go to bed, the young man slipped the drugs under his mattress while the guard was distracted for a moment.

 

The next morning, Bijan woke up with a raging erection. Kicking the coverlet off his naked body, he began wanking furiously.

“Son of a pig, may you be buried in shit and your grave pissed on by monkeys!” The enraged guard sprang to his feet and stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Jumping out of bed, Bijan recovered the decoy kit, dropped the syringe on his mattress and the fentanyl bottle on the floor.

He picked up the injector of SOMNOS, shook his head, and stared at the drug as if it were a djinn who had come to kill him.

Taking a deep breath, he whispered “Shit!” and pressed the device against his thigh as Henry had shown him to do. He felt a warmth begin to spread throughout his body. He knew he had only a minute in which to act.

Bijan hurried across the room to the half-metre-tall model of the cubical black stone called the Ka’aba–the holy shrine in Mecca. Lifting the replica, he released a hidden catch on the bottom. A small chamber dropped open.

The plan was for his father to remove the evidence of the subterfuge at some time after his “death” and dispose of it.

Bijan was already feeling weak and woozy as he made his way back to his bed. The drug was taking effect.

With one last lingering glance around the room he had grown up in–and in which he had been virtually imprisoned for almost a year–he whispered “Allahu akhbar,” closed his eyes, and stopped breathing.

 

Pandemonium ensued predictably. The guard returned and discovered Bijan. In a cold sweat, he radioed his superiors, who were in the room in under five minutes. Four IRGC officers in uniform and five men in dark suits crowded into the small bed chamber. The hapless guard cowered in one corner.

One uniformed officer examined the young man and the fentanyl phial and syringe near his body. A doctor checked his pulse and shook his head. Only then did anyone bother to admit the family.

Bijan’s father entered the room first. As ruthless as their reputation was, the IRGC men and officers became silent. All of them retreated to the perimeter of the room out of respect for the Minister and his terrible loss.

“What happened?” Tohjani inquired of the highest-ranking uniformed officer in the room, Guard Colonel al-Khamenei.

“Apologies, Honorable Minister. This appears to be a drug overdose.”

The grieving father whirled to face the night guard.

“Weren’t you in the room with him? Where were you? Why didn’t you stop him?”

The colonel intervened. “Please, sir. Allow us to investigate. Let me assure you, if anyone is at fault, he will be punished... most severely.” He glared at the guardsman, who began to tremble.

Seeing this, Tohjani spoke more calmly. “Let us not be hasty, Colonel. If someone has done something wrong, let justice be served, but if there is an innocent explanation, we do not want any more mothers to suffer.”

Al-Khamenei’s brows knitted. He looked carefully at the Foreign Minister. “I believe that an English lord visited you last evening.”

Without hesitation, Tohjani replied, “Yes. The son of an old friend from my days as ambassador.”

“How long was he here?”

“He left around midnight. I called a cab for him.”

“We know that. What did the two... the three of you discuss for six hours?”

Hassan frowned. “Nothing of consequence. We reminisced about my days with his father, the earl, and we talked about his project in our country – the Rembrandt etching of The Persian.”

Al-Khamenei snorted. “And that took six hours?”

Showing his annoyance, the minister said, “Yes, Colonel, a cordial visit, with all that entails, required a leisurely amount of time, and we all were quite relaxed and enjoyed the encounter. And what does this have to do with my son’s tragic death?”

The colonel briefly glanced at one of the men in the room who was not in uniform. The man shook his head imperceptibly, and the colonel changed his tone. “My deepest condolences on your loss, Minister.”

Shortly, Asenath was ushered into the room. She burst into tears and, wailing, fell upon her son’s body.

Most of the IRGC men in the room lowered their heads, embarrassed to be witnessing a mother’s grief. The colonel and another officer studied her carefully, though, as if evaluating the sincerity of her reaction.

“Has a doctor examined him? Is there any hope?” The father asked, drawing their attention away from his wife.

“Yes, Minister, the doctor has determined...” The colonel swallowed. “But no, the prisoner is... your son has passed into the hands of Allah Ar-Raheem–the Merciful.”

At those words, one of the officers spit on the floor in disgust. “Faggot! He will burn in hell.”

Madame Tohjani began screaming in agony, and the colonel brusquely ordered the offending officer to leave the room.

“I am terribly sorry, Madame. We don’t wish to worsen your suffering.”

“Please allow us to be alone with our son for a few minutes.” Hassan requested.

The colonel’s eyes darted around the room, unsure what to do. Although he was the highest-ranking man in uniform, one or two of the men in plain clothes outranked him and could veto any order he gave.

The man in the suit nodded once and led the rest out of the room.

Alone in their son’s bedroom, Hassan and his wife exchanged looks.

She knelt beside the lifeless body, sobbing. “My beloved. My son. My little boy. Why have you done this to yourself?”

As he watched his wife’s misery at the death of her son, Tohjani realized that she–and he–would have felt the same unbearable pain if Iranian “justice” were allowed to condemn him to a horrible death. How could he put her through this agony, and then admit it was not real?

He struggled with himself, finally deciding he must tell her the truth. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She rose and faced him, sensing there was something he was trying to communicate to her.

“Are you certain he is dead?” she whispered. The pleading hope in her voice pierced his heart like an icy dagger.

Tohjani hesitated. Winnie had pointed out Asenath’s unfeigned grief would serve as powerful proof Bijan was really dead. He realized he couldn’t put his beloved wife through such pain. He prayed she would cooperate with the deception.

He tapped one finger twice on his ear, indicating the room was bugged. Shaking his head “no” to indicate he was telling the opposite of the truth, he said, “I’m afraid he is. His sins have caught him up. May Allah have mercy upon him.”

Immediately realizing the ruse, Asenath nodded silently and smiled briefly.

She whispered in her husband’s ear, “The Englishman.” He nodded once.

Bijan’s mother took a deep breath and let out a shrieking wail. She fell to her knees and buried her face in her dead son’s chest.

The IRGC men spilled back into the room as Tohjani helped her to her feet. He called for his wife’s maid, Nousha, who was standing just outside the door, tears flowing down her face.

She rushed into the room and guided her grieving mistress away.

When Asenath was gone, her husband turned to the colonel, “What will happen now?”

Straightening to his full height, al-Khamenei took on a commanding tone. “We will take the body to the laboratory for a post-mortem examination.”

“But surely such a horrid thing would not be necessary. The doctor has already examined him...”

Tohjani searched in vain for some way to refuse or persuade the colonel not to take Bijan’s body away.

“We will do whatever we want with this criminal who has committed the sin of suicide.” The colonel indicated to his men to pick up the lifeless body.

“You will do no such thing!” An authoritative voice boomed from the doorway. Ayatullah Shaikh Mirsami entered the room with firm assurance. All the men in the room bowed their heads briefly in respect for the senior cleric. “Shari’a forbids dismembering the dead. His remains must be prepared for burial and placed in his tomb before the sun sets today.”

“We will decide what is done with the body,” one of the men in black suits intoned ominously.

“I say you will not. Allah’s law is clear. Do I have to speak to the Sayyid about this?”

The man who objected was stymied. He had almost no respect for the Grand Ayatullah or any other religious leader. Iran was purportedly a theocracy, but real power resided with the Revolutionary Guard. The officer knew he could not risk making the point openly.

He relented. “The doctors will examine until they are satisfied, but they will do their work here, and there will be no ‘dismemberment’ of the body.”

Mirsami nodded solemnly, sealing the bargain. “Agreed. And I will remain in this room during their examination–to assist them, should any question of sacred law arise.”

Disgusted, the IRGC man said no more and stomped out of the room. The other officers and the Foreign Minister followed him, leaving only three doctors with the Shaikh. Two were in Guard uniforms and one was a civilian.

 

An hour later, the imam and the physicians came out of Bijan’s room.

“May he rejoice in paradise,” the clergyman intoned.

The colonel turned to the three physicians and demanded sternly. “Was this a suicide?”

One of them said, “No, Colonel. As far as we can determine, this is an accidental overdose, probably caused by the boy hurrying to take the drug while the guard was out of the room and misjudging the dosage.”

Shaikh Mirsami nodded solemnly in approval of the doctor’s statement. This was the conclusion that he had insisted upon.

Al-Khamenei turned and glared at Bijan’s guard, who nearly fainted. Two uniformed officers quickly took hold of his arms to hold him up and restrain him.

The colonel turned to Tohjani. “Honorable Minister, we offer our deepest sympathies at your loss. If you need any assistance...”

“Thank you, Colonel. We have all we need here.”

“Will he be buried in your family tomb?”

“Yes. With his ancestors.”

“With your permission, sir, we will post an honor guard at the mausoleum.”

Hassan nodded graciously. “It would be much appreciated, Colonel.”

The officer saluted him and turned to leave.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, Minister?”

“The young guardsman who was with Bijan...”

“Sir?”

“It was all a terrible accident. We do not hold him responsible. Please go easy on him.”

Surprised, the colonel replied, “We will do what we can, sir.”