The Unpredictable Page 5

  At last, he found the entrance. The red clay brick building dated back to the early 13th century and was built in the typical Persian architecture, with its acute arcs. He quickly walked in and went to purchase his ticket. He was slightly bending down, to better speak into the low hole in the ticket office’s glass wall, when he felt a hand coming down on his shoulder, startling him and making him turn around.

  “Nino! Alas, I’ve convinced you to visit me? Or better yet, to visit this splendid museum and its magnificent artifacts!” exclaimed the man with the reddish hair and the freckled face that had appeared behind him.

  “Professor Gordon, it’s a pleasure to find you here. I thought you were still busy with the excavations,” Nino replied, glad to see the man he’d met only a few days before at the Laleh hotel, with whom he’d immediately felt at ease.

  “Nino, please, call me James. Professor Gordon makes me feel like a pompous British architect… even more than I actually am!”

  “Okay James, if you want to hide the evidence!” Nino answered sarcastically.

  “You Italians are always ready to make jokes, aren’t you?” Gordon said with a grin.

  “Come, if you’ll let me, I’ll be your guide. These halls are like home to me, I might show you a few interesting finds that aren’t visible to the public yet. This time, the British man will be a Cicerone for the Italian.”

  “Thank you, I’ll be glad to follow you. Thousand-year-old shards and bones aren’t my strong point, but maybe with your help I’ll be able to appreciate their importance and value,” Nino replied, grateful for the warm welcome.

  “I thought you’d remained on the excavation site, James. I got back yesterday from Andimeshk, from that enormous refinery plant on the road to Dokhtar.” He didn’t make it to the end of his sentence because Gordon interrupted him, grabbing his right arm as if to underline what he was about to say:

  “Then we were quite close, my friend! The site where we’re digging is just a few miles away from the refinery’s western entrance. Three years ago, the works to lay a new pipeline unearthed some settlements from an Iranian civilization dating back to 2000 b.C. In this country, if you blow off some sand, all kinds of remains come to light!”

  “Well then, if I’d reached out my arm, we could have shaken hands!” Nino jokingly asserted.

  “That is so. I came back yesterday; I’ll be spending a few more days here at the museum before I go back to the sands and stones of that godforsaken place. Follow me, let’s start with this hall, it’s devoted to the treasury of Persepolis. That bas-relief depicts the royal audience of Xerxes and his son Darius I, dating back to the 6th century b.C. There you can see the renown inscription in three languages, ancient Persian, Akkadian and Elamite.”

  They spent several hours together. Nino marvelled at how a few pieces of inscribed clay could hold so much information as to drive brilliant minds of archaeologists insane with years and years of study. Without Gordon’s help, he’d have missed out on all that knowledge.

  They dined together at the Laleh hotel that night, Nino was once more impressed by the professor, for his deep-seated culture and his pristine affability as much as for his strong and athletic physique. Two qualities that seemed to be somewhat contrasting. They bid farewell like two old chums and agreed to meet upon Nino’s next return to Tehran.

  CHAPTER 7

  Milan (Italy) , 12/11/2011 3:30 P.M.

  -“Mr. Vestwood” –

  He walked down one of the mobile jet bridges that led him from the plane directly to the arrivals terminal. An automatic movement of his index finger pressed his smartphone’s on/off button as he watched the black carpet on the conveyor belt move in curves and chicanes. Suitcases were untidily scattered on it, waiting to be picked up by their owners’ ready hands. He rejoiced at the thought of going home, of looking into the warmest and most enticing brown eyes in the whole planet again, of caressing the silky black hair of the women who had captured his heart. The trip to Iran had shaken up his life. He had poked a tiny hole in the box that encased his existence, and through that pinhole he’d caught a glimpse of a new world. He had only been able to get a taste of that alternative, not its entirety, and the only surefire certainty he had left was Sara. He knew that it was possible to live a different life, to abandon the monotony and barrenness of daily routines; to reconquer a different contact with nature, with the environment around him, with everything that made him aware of his existence. Such a different reality seemed closer and more tangible than he would have hoped for. It was right there, outside the narrow and invalicable walls of his current life, ready to be experienced.

  As he picked up the hardside Samsonite suitcase from the conveyor belt, he heard the unmistakable ping of his cell phone signalling an incoming SMS. He put down his luggage, with the same hand he pulled out the phone from his pocket to read the message:

  “Hi Nino, I’m waiting for you at the airport bar, right outside the arrival gate, it’s important. My phone is out of order, this is a temporary number. Helson.”

  “Damn it!”, he cursed under his breath.

  He walked towards the Public Security post before the exit, hoping there wasn’t any trouble with Iran, but that ambush didn’t leave much room for doubts. He approached the bar that he saw to his right as he passed the sliding doors. It was crowded, he tried in vain to make out Helson’s figure, whose remarkable height and impeccable grey hair should have made him stand out among the sea of moving heads. But it seemed that his boss was late. Just to be sure, he scoured the outside area too, but he didn’t recognize recognizing anyone, so he took advantage of a free table to take a seat and wait. He felt a certain anxiety grow towards such an unexpected meeting. The most intricate thoughts crossed his mind, bouncing in his brain’s synapses. He conjured ideas that he then discarded as far-fetched and tossed into an imaginary recycling bin at the end of a swirling and endless cycle.

  His dwelling was interrupted by a greeting in a perfect English:

  “Good morning, Nino! May I sit? How are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, the man sat down on the empty chair across from him.

  In his forties, tall, slender, with short and straight light hair, smiling and cordial but purposeful. Nino remained speechless for a few seconds, as he combed through his memories, focusing on any peculiar demeanor that might remind him of who exactly was standing in front of him. He was baffled: it was strange, his faultless memory was failing him, he couldn’t find any connection to the man.

  “Excuse me, but I just can’t remember, can you help me? I’m actually here for a very important meeting, I don’t mean to be rude,” he answered, scanning the new figures that were entering the bar in the background for Helson.

  “You can’t remember, Nino, because we’ve never met,” the man answered with determination.

  Nino winced and focused again on the face of the stranger, who was smiling at him and looking straight into his eyes.

  “How do you know my name? What do you want?” he said, dismayed.

  “Antonio Avito, Nino for short, born in Tripoli on May 18th, 1977 to Tommaso Avito and Maria Russo, currently married to Sara Felicori. An Italian citizen, you were living in North Western Africa until a few years ago. In Libya until the age of seven, then in Tunis, due to your father’s work, where you remained until you were fifteen, attending the La Salle brotherhood’s school. Following Tommaso’s professional necessities, the family then moved to Algiers, where you completed your studies…” The stranger’s report went on until he was interrupted.

  “Hey, hey… wait a minute, who the hell are you? Wipe that sarcastic smirk off your face and get to the point! What do you want?” Nino exclaimed, staggered.

  “I sent you that message in Helson’s name, asking to meet me here,” the man answered.

  Nino began to stand up, enraged.

  “Wait! Don’t leave. I’ll explain everything,” the stranger continued, as composed as ever.

  “My name is Chris Vest
wood, I work for the British government,” he continued, sliding an ID badge on the table.

  “And what does the British government want from me?” Nino asked, feeling his anxiety grow.

  He picked up the credit card-like document on which the Foreign & Commonwealth Office heading stood out with its logo of a lion and unicorn facing each other. Below it, in smaller print, was the department: Intelligence and Defense, and then the name: Chris Vestwood. No indication of an identification number or of the performed duty.

  “You’ll understand soon. Give me five more minutes, then you’ll be able to draw your own conclusions. You’ve just returned from Tehran,” Mr. Vestwood continued.

  “So what?” Nino replied, aggravated, impatient to put an end to the conversation.

  “We need your cooperation,” the British man said.

  “You are out of your mind! Please get out,” he cried, annoyed and in disbelief.

  “Wait, listen to what I have to say, then you’ll decide.”

  “Get out, leave me alone! Go make a fool of somebody else.”

  “Recently, some major and intolerable events have taken place that are putting some people’s lives and the political and economic international balances at risk,” Vestwood added.

  “And I am Batman and I’ll have to save the world!” Nino replied sarcastically.

  “I’m telling you nothing but the truth,” the British man went on. “You are aware of the international political situation, so you must sense the difficulties that Western states are facing in establishing a dialog with the Iranian regime. Actually, one could say that dialog is literally non-existent nowadays. Our presence in that country is extremely limited, and you can imagine that bringing one of our own into the country right now, particularly in the position we need, is almost impossible. I say almost, because we do have a shot: you, Mr. Avito. Your cooperation is currently the only chance to resolve this situation as soon as possible, at the minimum risk, and in the most painless way.

  “Who is behind this fucking joke? I don’t have any time to waste, my patience has a limit,” Nino replied.

  “You don’t believe me? Yet all the information I’ve given you is true. What if I told you that in Tehran you met with the minister’s secretary Fadiri, with Dr. Khatibi and that, together with the head of security services Mr. Bagheli, you went to Andimeshk?” The British man unexpectedly revealed.

  It was absurd, but that man seemed to know things that not even his wife or his closest friend were aware of.

  “You’re asking me to collaborate with the British government, to do something on your behalf in Iranian territory? I bet my Persian friends wouldn’t be too happy about it, were they to find out! Do you realize how preposterous your request is?”

  “Perfectly well.”

  “Who’d you take me for, the latest James Bond in the series?! I’m no more than a regular employee for Swiss Exploration, I’ve just faced a challenging business trip in Iran and I can’t wait to get home and relax.”

  In his heart he knew how deeply he wished to escape from the cage of his routine, but that request, that meeting only sounded like a dream, a mixture of imaginary construction and madness that had suddenly broken into his life. This demand was too much, far beyond any likely understanding, beyond his competence.

  “And what should I do for you, Mr. Vestwood?” Nino added.

  “At this time, in this situation, I cannot be any more specific. I realize that it must be difficult for you to understand what I just hinted at, but I need to know if you are willing to consider this hypothesis.”

  “The only answer I can give you is: go to hell,” Nino answered with a placidity that concealed his growing curiosity.

  As if he hadn’t heard Nino’s exhortation, the Brit continued: “I won’t deny that there are risks, concrete ones, but there is too much at stake. You will receive monetary compensation, but, in my opinion, motivation should be what pushes you to accept. You are being given the chance to participate actively, to be, let’s say, in the vanguard of an operation that is crucial for the political and economic balance of our countries. If we don’t try to adequately reinstate the assets now, we’ll risk being crushed by a new, ruthless fundamentalist Islamic regime, prepared to use any means to destroy us and erase our dignity and our culture. I’m not overstating, believe me. I know that you are very familiar with Islam, that you have deep-rooted friendships in Maghreb countries, but surely you are aware of its negative aspects just as well, like the madness of violent, uncompromising integralism. Help us out, and the gratification you’ll get in return will be enormous. So many people in the Western world will be morally in debt with you. Otherwise, a conflict will be inevitable, and it won’t be possible to spare many lives; many innocents will unfairly pay for sins they never committed. This might all sound absurd and insane to you, like a stupid joke contrived by a foolish friend, but unfortunately that’s not the case. This is the truth. We would never have turned to you if we could have done otherwise, we would never have involved a civilian in an operation that is so…”

  “Are you trying to say difficult?” Nino interjected.

  “Yes, and important. Undoubtedly, quite important. The governments of the major Western countries have mobilitated for this initiative, I am their spokesman. However, I need an answer, I must ask you whether or not you are willing to listen to the rest I have to say. Given the pressure of time, both your YES and your NO would require immediate planning of completely different and highly relevant actions. I can’t force you, I just hope you can choose the right option,” Vestwood added seriously, undoing the last button of the dark blue trench coat that was clenching his chest.

  Nino remained silent, searching the man’s eyes for the slightest hint of uncertainty, almost expecting everything to end with loud laughter over a well-orchestrated joke. He was nervously tapping the ID badge on the table, waiting for the next turn of events.

  “This is my number at the Consulate, state your name when you call, and ask for me directly,” the British man invited him, handing over his business card. “I’ll take this back, if you don’t mind,” he added, removing the Foreign Office badge from his hand.

  Nino dialled the number and waited. It rang a few times before a recorded voice came on, directing him towards the various offices of the British Consulate that were available to the public. He chose to be directed to the dispatcher. A kind female voice answered in English, and he said:

  “Good morning, my name is Antonio Avito, I’d like to speak with Mr. Vestwood, please.”

  “Please hold,” the woman replied.

  After a few seconds, the same voice returned:

  “Mr. Avito, Mr. Vestwood has come to the airport to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Nino replied.

  He was captured by the thought that this man, who had suddenly appeared out of a world that didn’t belong to him, was telling the truth. He kept his cell phone attached to his ear long after the communication had ended. He must have had a ridiculous expression on his face, halfway between astonishment and disbelief.

  “Yes, actually… I might consider the possibility but…”

  “Ok, the first step is over and done with. Now, please follow me, I’ll tell you something interesting but we must go elsewhere, somewhere more private.”

  They stood up without having had any food or drinks, and walked out towards the underground parking next to the terminal. All the stores in the airport were adorned for the upcoming festivities, with flashing colored lights reflecting everywhere in that scene full of glass and metal surfaces. Their rhythmic and quick steps and trundling trolleys blended into the ones of hundreds of people frenziedly arriving from or leaving for who knew which destinations. Just one among them, though, would be given a cumbersome task, heavy enough to crush him, but he was still unaware of it.

  Tension and surprise were gradually making way to reason and to a realization of the initially surreal situation. They reached the blue Range Rover,
parked in a dimly lit area of the parking lot, just barely grazed by the white neon light. The blinkers lit up and the British man signalled him to climb in. Nino settled into the passenger seat. His heart was beating feverishly, so loud that he looked into the Brit’s eyes as if concerned that he could hear the powerful beats.

  “Could you pass me your mobile phone?” Vestwood asked.

  He turned and handed it over, curious as to find out why. Vestwood thanked him and took it, opening it, removing the battery and placing the pieces on the dashboard.

  “Excuse me, but now it’ll surely be harmless, it’s a small precaution! Now we may speak freely. First of all, I inform you that we are going to the British Consulate.”

  Still restless, concerned by the bold choice to follow the British man, Nino kept on listening.

  “Let us get to the point. The turning event that brought us to the current precarious situation unfolded about a month ago. In a small German country, a boy named Nicholas mysteriously disappeared as he was coming home from school. At first they thought about kidnapping for ransom, or sex trafficking, then the lead of organ trafficking towards Eastern Europe was erroneously followed. The case seemed to fall under the normal competence of the local Police, or Interpol at the most, but a few hours later they discovered the importance that Nicholas’s father, Alexander Wharz, had within his field. Professor Wharz is a brilliant scientist, a Physics lecturer at the University of Tubingen, actively engaged in tests at the LHC Large Hadron Collider in CERN in Geneva.”

  “Yes, I’ve been following the news through the media, that boy is a real angel. I was touched by the pictures that appeared on the papers and by what happened. The disappearance of his father, however, puzzled me.”

  “You’ve hit the heart of the matter, I was just getting to that. As soon as the German Intelligence services came into play, considering the various potentially dangerous implications that would divest the local Public Security authorities, Professor Wharz’s disappearance became known. Regrettably, the Services reacted too slowly. The intention to take total control over the post-kidnapping phase, preventing leaks of information towards hostile powers, was vain.”