The Knight's Tale - 9. Chapter 9

Surprised by seeing two men fucking with passionate abandon, and embarrassed by his own uncontrollable ejaculation, Bijan scurried back to his own room and searched for something to clean himself up.

His eyes lighted on the heap of burial linen he must have been wrapped in.

Picking up the soft cloth, he dried himself, peeled off the sticky thong, and tried to wipe the goo off it with some more of the gauzy material.

Frustrated, he stretched out the skimpy undergarment to dry on a little table by the bedside. He covered himself with a wide strip of the funeral wrap, lay back down, and fell asleep again in a minute.

Evening came before any of them woke up. The late-night journey from Tehran to the Caspian Sea had been filled with fear and tension.

Winnie was the first to wake. Pulling on his clothes, he left Henry sleeping in their bed and stepped across the hall to check on Bijan.

The young man was awake, staring at the ceiling. He was naked, except for a thin layer of nearly transparent linen draped across his hips.

“How are you doing?”

“Not bad, as long as I lie down. Otherwise, my goddamn legs don’t want to support me and my head is spinning.”

“I have something that should help.”

Winnie went back to the other room and returned with the small black box of medical supplies.

Back in Bijan’s room, he knelt beside the bed and withdrew a hypodermic containing a blue liquid.

Wide-eyed, Bijan demanded, “What the fuck is that?”

“Not to worry, my lad. You’re just feeling a bit dodgy. This is the antidote. You’ve already had the first dose. In a matter of minutes, all symptoms of the SOMNOS should disappear, and you’ll be your proper randy self again.”

“Why didn’t you give it to me before now?”

“The recommendation was to allow as much of the drug to dissipate on its own before forcing things.”

“Are you sure it’s all right to force things now?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been ‘dead’ more than 24 hours, and you need your wits about you, not to mention the ability to haul arse if required. We’ll be leaving as soon as it’s dark enough.”

“Will hauling arse be necessary?”

“Who knows? Perhaps you should say a prayer to Allah for a smooth transfer to the fishing boat.”

Bijan was silent. Winnie couldn’t tell if he was praying or not.

The injection done, the young man lay back and relaxed.

True to Winnie’s word, all remnants of the drug faded away, and the fugitive felt refreshed and strong.

Bijan gingerly sat up on the side of the bed. The thin burial cloth fell to the floor, but the young man was loathe to pick up the potent reminder of his “death.” He decided being naked in front of a stranger was to be desired over covering himself again with his erstwhile shroud.

Nodding at the hypodermic still in Winnie’s hand, he joked, “Whatever it is, you could make a fortune selling this shit,”

Winnie glared back at Bijan. “Whatever this shit is, I think it should be locked up in a vault deep underground and never used again.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes things too easy, and easy leads to carelessness, and carelessness to mistakes, and mistakes to deaths.”

Bijan nodded, chastened.

The sound of Henry’s voice came from the doorway. He greeted their charge with a warm smile. “Pay no attention to Mr Buzz-Killer there. He’s always a bit over-dramatic. I’m damn glad you’re hunky-dory and ready for the next leg of our fucking flight to freedom.”

“Well, I desperately hope you brought some clothes for me to wear.”

“Of course, but you’ll have to come over here to get them,” Henry teased.

“You wish,” Bijan laughed. “Besides, I seem to remember the two of you rather drooling over me while I was in and out of consciousness. I think one of you said something about putting my end-piece in his mouth. Of course, I might have just been having a sexy dream...”

Blushing, Henry tossed Bijan’s clothing to him. The young man got to his feet naked, stretched, and proceeded to do the reverse of a strip-tease for the two agents, who watched with unconcealed appreciation as he took his time clothing his handsome young body.

Finally, Bijan suggested, “Is anybody hungry—for food I mean? I’m hoping there’s something to eat down in the bloody tiny kitchen.”

While they were finishing their simple meal, Winnie excused himself and climbed up a rickety ladder in the middle of the upstairs hallway. Concealed on the roof of the safe house, he took out a small radio and pressed some buttons.

With Winnie gone, Bijan turned and asked Henry, “How the hell did you duck the Revolutionary Guard? I thought they were on your ass 24 by 7.”

“Oh, they were, but you see, I faked a massive row with the museum director over the price of the Rembrandt. I packed up my shit and headed for the airport. I bought a Turkish Airways ticket back to London and even boarded the plane.”

“No shit! How did you get out of that?”

“Well, Winnie didn’t only provide you with useful meds.”

He winked at Bijan, “I slipped a little pill that he gave me, and in 30 seconds I was yelling for a vomit bag. The flight crew ushered me off that plane faster than you can say, ‘heave-ho,’ and I was hustled into the nearest restroom. The crew dashed back to the plane and it took off immediately.”

“How did you get out of the airport?”

“Well first, I took the antidote to the fucking vomit pill. It took a couple of minutes to work. I had my overnight bag with me, and it contained a change of clothes, a wig, moustache, and some makeup to change my appearance. Then I just walked out, chatting with a couple of blokes who had happened in.”

“And your watchers were fooled?”

“More like, ‘my watchers were fools.’ The Revolutionary Guard as a whole is a formidable foe, but they recruit from all levels of society and some of the shit jobs are given to barely-educated assholes who receive minimal training. I actually walked by both of them and heard them laughing at how easily I had been run out of the country.”

“Where did you go? Where did you stay?”

“Winnie provided me with a safe house until night-time, and then I was picked up by the driver who spirited us out of Tehran. We waited for you on that goddamn goat-path, hauled ass up to the coast, and here I am, no worse for wear.”

“Do you think they’ll be looking for you?”

“Oh, I have no doubt that a Guard watcher followed me aboard the plane, but he or she couldn’t do a goddamn thing until it arrived in Istanbul more than three hours later. The Turks don’t like Iranians much, so I’m sure the motherfucker was put through the wringer on arrival there.”

Bijan was wide-eyed.

Henry continued. “He—or she—probably lost a couple more hours being interrogated, before being able to contact Al-Khamenei. And by then my connecting flight to London had left, supposedly with me on it and in the clear.”

“Holy shit. That’s fucking awesome. But why were they watching you anyway? Did they suspect you of something?”

“They suspected me of being British, and that’s all they needed to make an iron-clad case, just as soon as they fabricated some pretext to nab me. I didn’t give them any excuse, and now I’m a fugitive whose whereabouts are a total bloody mystery to the fuckers.”

“Will they try to find you in England?”

“They know my name, my title, and where I live, so I imagine they could track me down if they wanted to. But don’t worry. MI6 will be keeping a close eye on me, and I do have some resources of my own.”

He put a comforting hand on Bijan’s shoulder. “Besides, for all they know, I’m just a low-level Foreign Office hack who fucked up an important assignment. They don’t have any other reason to suspect me of anything.”

“Wow! You live an exciting life.”

“Not usually. This is far and away the most dangerous and complicated mission I’ve ever been assigned. I’m learning on the job, so to speak, and damn fast, too.”

“You’re quite a slippery fish, aren’t you?” Bijan grinned in admiration.

“I like to think I can be, when I need to.” Henry smiled back and thought, Damn, I’m getting to like this boy, on a level way above lust.

Five minutes had passed, and Winnie rejoined them at the table.

He wore a worried expression. “Change of plans.”

The two stared at him in alarm.

“Not too serious. The Iranian Navy is on routine maneuvers in the Caspian Sea and is checking marine traffic, looking for smugglers. We have to make extra sure your boat gets past them.”

“How?” the young man asked nervously.

“Two approaches. First, we make you look like a cabin boy.”

“How the hell do we do that?” Bijan sounded almost offended.

“All I need is right here.” The agent lifted a small suitcase into view. “First, young sir, you need to shave your beard, and then strip off.”

“What the fuck?”

“As handsome as you are, you look more like a rich prick from Shemiran than a poor tosser from Bābul Sar.” He winked at Henry, who was just as eager to have another peek at Bijan au naturel.

Over the next half hour, Bijan shaved off his beard, and Winnie began daubing every inch of the handsome young man’s body with a darkening agent, leaving him with the olive skin of the lower orders of Iranian society, in lieu of his aristocratic Persian countenance.

“Do you have to apply it there?” Bijan sounded annoyed as the older man carefully applied the makeup to his cock and balls. The tender touches were arousing him to an erection.

“Do you want a nosy sailor to peek and find you soft and pink?”

“The two of you have been informed I’m gay...”

“And?”

“Well, you put on quite a show in your room this morning.”

Henry grinned. “I saw you watching us, and what we were going at in bed had a decided effect on your knobby there.”

Blushing, the young man protested, “I just want to make sure what you’re doing to me now is not for your own entertainment, or to tease me.”

His penis was fully hard, and he began to stroke it lightly with one hand, ostensibly spreading the skin dye more thoroughly.

He grinned at Henry, who was transfixed as he eyed the young man’s uncut cock. Its head was burning purple, and Henry could imagine wrapping his mouth around it...

Winnie got to his feet and looked the lad in the eye, breaking the spell.

“My young friend, as entertaining as this might be under other circumstances, the only purpose just now is to save your fucking life. OK?”

Bijan thought it over and then grinned. “I merely hoped you were enjoying it as much as I am.”

They all laughed, relieving the tension.

After the makeup was applied, a gooey hair gel was added.

“This smells like dead fish!”

“All part of the plan. You can’t be dressed and smell like a yob from the streets and have beautifully coifed hair.”

Winnie produced ragged clothing. “Here’s the other half of your disguise. Put this on, and you’ll look like a real dogsbody.”

Holding the outfit in disgust, Bijan sniffed at it and exclaimed, “This stinks of day-old shit and week-old piss!”

“You want to be convincing, don’t you?”

“How long do I have to wear this kaka?”

“Henry will guide you, but I expect you will need to keep up the ruse at least until you are safely out of Iranian territorial waters.”

Turning toward the other man, Bijan grinned wickedly and demanded, “And what cover will you be using, Harry?”

Baffled, Henry turned to Winnie, whose expression deflated him.

“Sadly, I can think of no easy way to transmogrify His Lordship from posh to tosh.”

“So what will I do?” Henry inquired warily.

“I’m afraid you may have to join the bilge rats in the underbelly of the ship for as long as necessary. The good news is you’ll only have to do it if you are stopped and boarded by a Navy vessel. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen.”

“So, precisely what does ‘joining the bilge rats’ entail?”

“A quick change into a wet suit and mask, and a dive under the offal at the bottom of the fish tank.”

“Goddamn!”

“Spot on.”

An hour after sunset, a nondescript grey van drew up in back of the safe house.

Three men crouched low, dashed out, and piled into the back of the vehicle.

In the darkness, the driver navigated the near-deserted streets of the old town. Few locals dared to be outdoors at this time of day.

Their destination was Fereydunkenar Port, a small fishing village 14 kilometres west along the coast.

The two escapees were hustled aboard a 30-foot dhow and rapidly concealed below deck.

In hushed tones, Winnie exchanged a few words in Farsi with the ship’s captain, Farhad Mousa. In addition to the skipper, there was a crew of four, all of them fishermen.

In their cramped quarters, Henry turned to Bijan, “Did you understand what Winnie said?”

“I only heard a little. He was warning him the Navy is patrolling and told him to take care of us. He suggested we don’t depart after midnight.”

Henry’s face betrayed his concern.

Bijan comforted him. “Don’t worry. The name of this ship is Al-masjid—the Mosque—which is a benevolent sign from Allah (peace be to Him).”

“I dearly hope you are right, my boy.”

A little after 1 AM, the Al-masjid chugged past the breakwater and out into the open Caspian Sea.

According to the 2019 treaty among Russia, Iran, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan, Iranian territorial waters extended for 15 nautical miles, or 28 kilometres from the shore.

It took the little ship over an hour to approach the outer limit of the international boundary.

Mousa leaned into the gangway down to the hold where the two were secreted.

He spoke and Bijan translated, “We’re almost there. We should be safe in about 15 minutes.”

Without warning, a blinding shaft of laser light sliced through the night.

With a roar, an Iranian Boghammar high-speed patrol boat homed in the smaller vessel. Captain Mousa hurried to the helm.

Matching the slow progress of the Al-masjid, the Navy boat’s commander barked orders over a loudhailer.

The two hiding in the hold peered through a dirty porthole.

Henry asked Bijan to translate. “What is he saying?”

“He says he is Navban Yekom—that’s Lieutenant Junior Grade—Yousef Entezami, in command of the patrol boat Ashura. He is demanding to know what ship this is and where we are going.”

The skipper responded with respect, doing his best to sound harmless and subservient.

The Navban shouted a few more questions, which the fisherman answered.

While they were speaking, the piercing beam crawled over every visible part of the small fishing boat.

Nervous, Henry pulled on the wet suit and Bijan helped him zip up the back.

“Might as well be ready to join those goddamn bloody bilge rats.” Henry lamented.

They waited in silence, hoping for the best.

At one point, the searchlight passed across the porthole where the two were hiding.

The two men fell backward, momentarily blinded.

“Shit! What the fuck are they doing now?” Henry tried to peek out without drawing attention to himself.

To their dismay, he saw the commander of the patrol boat order two men to search the Al-masjid. They boarded and examined the open deck.

Finding nothing, they turned to look at their commander.

“Look below, you fools.” Entezami ordered, and Bijan translated.

One man headed for the bow of the ship, where the crews’ quarters were. He disappeared down the gangway.

The other warily made his way toward the stern. Peering down into the darkness reluctantly, he turned again toward his superior officer, who shouted sternly, “Get your ass down there right now!”

The sailor switched on a torch and carefully descended the ladder, step by step. When he reached the bottom, he aimed the beam all around the open space surrounding the fish tank.

The light blinded Bijan, who held up his hands over his eyes.

“Mercy, sir,” he pleaded, mimicking the accent of the working class.

“Who are you?”

“I am Ali. I am a fisherman.”

“Is there anyone else down here?”

“No, master. Just I.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was preparing the tank for tonight’s catch of fish.”

The sailor walked over and beamed his torch down into the murky water.

Henry lay on his stomach under three metres of filthy water so that the black wet suit would be invisible and his face mask would not reflect the light. He knew he could hold his breath for up to five minutes if necessary, and he had filled his lungs as soon as he had heard footsteps descending the gangway.

The Iranian navvy trolled the shaft of light through the dark muck of the tank, leaning over to see into the murky mess as best he could.

Frantic, Bijan inched closer to the man and readied himself to push him into the tank if he spotted Henry.

The three men were frozen into a tableau vivant—one on the bottom of the fetid tank, another peering into it, and the third crouching, ready to attack.

Finally, seeing nothing, the navvy stepped away and turned to Bijan, who had quickly fallen onto his back, looking up in terror.

Bending in and shining the torch into the young man’s face, the sailor choked on the nauseating stench of Bijan’s clothing and backed away. Secretly, Bijan was grateful Winnie had made him wear the disgusting rags.

“And you are certain you’re alone here?”

“Yes, master.”

The sailor wheeled and hurried to climb the steep stair back into the fresh sea air of the night. Turning to the lieutenant, he shook his head.

The lieutenant frowned. “Very well. Get back here.”

He warned Mousa. “We are searching all ships tonight for contraband and unauthorized passengers. Do not stop or take anyone on board. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand. No one comes on board.”

Navban Entezami turned his back and disappeared into the cabin of the Ashura.

The roar of the patrol boat’s engine announced it was pulling away, heading off in search of other quarry. Bijan pulled Henry out of the stinking water and helped him peel off the slimy wet suit.

“I was going to push him in if he found you.”

“What? Are you fucking crazy? Then what would you have done?”

“Um, I don’t know... It seemed like the only thing...” There was a crack in Bijan’s voice.

More kindly, Henry said, “Well, thank you for the thought. Fortunately, we don’t have to know what would have happened when the bastard didn’t go back to his ship.”

Moments later, the skipper of the Al-masjid joined his two passengers in their hideaway.

Bijan translated, “He says the patrol decided we were small fry, too unimportant to waste any more time searching. He says we will be in Azeri territorial waters in fifteen minutes.”

The little fishing boat resumed its journey. The two fugitives came up from the hold into the fresh air and sat down with their backs to the mast.

The fifteen minutes ticked by as slowly as hours.

“I think we have made it,” Bijan sighed with relief.

“Let’s not be too...”

Suddenly, the brilliant searchlight of the Iranian patrol boat was on them again. Over a loudspeaker, an ominous voice ordered, “Stop! Turn about and come toward us, or we will shoot.”

The captain of the Al-masjid picked up his loud-hailer. Bijan whispered the translation to Henry.

“You have already stopped and searched us. Why have you come back?”

Navban Yekom Entezami crowed in triumph. “Stupid son of a pig! Did you think we didn’t know what you were up to? We knew if we let you think you had fooled us, you would let down your guard. Now turn about or I will order my men to blow you out of the water.”

Mousa turned a bleak look toward Henry.