Gerald Seymour - A Deniable Death

He had gone through too much to lose now. The questions came.

Different questions.

Shouted. What did he know about the Engineer and his travel? Yelled. Did he know the destination of the Engineer? Shrieked. Was he with Mossad or the CIA or the British agencies? Hoarse. What had he learned of the Engineer? What had he reported? They dinned into Foxy’s head. Then there was quiet and he could hear the goon panting. The two men by the door fidgeted, barely breathed, and the hush settled. Foxy couldn’t say where in his body there was no pain. He heard the strike of the match, and it was repeated – as if the first strike had not ignited the cigarette. There was the rustle of the foil being loosened, then the noise of the pack dropping back onto the table. Foxy knew there were more than two cigarettes in the pack and knew he couldn’t survive, and hold to the Code, if he were to be burned more than twice. He cringed. The men and women who had used him as a terp in the JFIT team at Basra had liked to say there was a certain way of breaking the strongest man, the one most determined to fight.

The environment was where no hope of rescue existed, or liberation, but most important was that no sympathiser was on hand to witness and give comfort. The degradation of aloneness broke men and women. Foxy couldn’t feed off another prisoner – no name necessary, no prior contact required – in an adjacent cell who went through similar hell. He had no clothes to cover himself so his shrivelled penis and shrunken testicles couldn’t be hidden. He could scream with the pain of the cigarettes and no one would come. So alone… He remembered the little man who had told the guys how they should behave, respond – and had been there, done it and survived – and could recall the flash of light on the hook, hear again the titters.

It was as if Foxy reached out to the stunted guy, hoped the hook would close on his hand and grip it. The whiff of the burning cigarette was closer again, and he awaited the pain. There was blackness.

In the blackness, no noise in his ears, no cigarette smoke in his nostrils, he couldn’t see the glowing end coming closer to his stomach. And the sense of time, bought at such a price, was lost.

‘You are Iranian. That is such a comfort to us. We need comfort. .. At home it is now past midnight and we were awake at five this morning, had hardly slept. Three flights, a train journey, we are so tired. It is a great comfort to know that we are with an Iranian, speaking our own language, and meeting a man who has the support of important people. Are you from Tehran? Or Shiraz – or, perhaps, Isfahan? We packed so quickly that I never thought to bring you something from home, some cake or-’

‘So that there is no misunderstanding, I am now German. I live in Germany, my wife is German. I do not expect, ever, to return to Iran.’

‘But if you are born Iranian you are always Iranian – and not one of the traitors, the monarchists, or we would not be here. I do not understand.’

‘What you should understand is that I, too, have had a long day. I am tired as your wife is tired. I do not want to sit here and gossip about life today in Iran, and how many demonstrations have been broken up this week by the Basij, how much tear gas has been fired by the Guard Corps in Tehran this month and how many have been arrested on the university campus.’

‘Why are you seeing us?’

‘Because threats were issued, and I feared for my family. Because the regime in which you, no doubt, have a senior position, with influence, is known in Europe for its brutality and its long arm. We do not, whatever the blood connection of nationality, have any bond other than that I am a man of medicine and your wife is to be examined by me. You will guarantee the remuneration that is necessary under German practices.’

The consultant turned to the wife. He thought her an attractive woman, but bowed with exhaustion and illness. He reckoned her to be around forty. He smiled and asked her quietly, ‘Is there a name I can use?’

‘I am Naghmeh.’

The man interrupted, ‘We have been forbidden to travel under our own names.’

He said, the smile hardening, ‘I could ask what is the nature of your work that prohibits the use of your own name but it would shame me. You are not the patient. Your wife is. Naghmeh, you have brought documents, X-rays? Yes?’

His wife was about to answer but the man’s intervention was faster. ‘We have the X-rays from Tehran, from the university hospital, and the most recent haemoglobin checks from the laboratory. The name has been cut off, but they are ours.’

An envelope was passed. The consultant did not open it, but laid it aside on his desk. ‘They are giving you steroids to combat the headaches?’

‘They increased the dose for her last month, but last week when we went again to Tehran they confessed they were not expert enough to offer further treatment and-’

‘Have they told you, Naghmeh, what condition they believe you suffer from?’

‘They have not told her. They did a biopsy, then told us that new procedures were not possible and-’

He said, ‘Would you, the anonymous man, wish to be afflicted with a brain tumour? It’s about the size, I imagine, of a pigeon’s egg. Would you care for it to be inside your skull? If not, please allow your wife to answer when I address her.’

‘You insult me.’

‘In Germany women are entitled to speak for themselves. Please.. . Naghmeh, the procedure is this-’

‘You show me no respect.’

‘I speak to my patients with great respect – and with little respect to those too frightened to give me their names.’ The consultant, feeling he was now Steffen, and not Soheil, was conscious of victory, a cheap one. He said, ‘Naghmeh, we will need to do more X-rays and also an MRI scan – that is, magnetic resonance imaging. It identifies the hydrogen atoms that lie in soft tissue, and will show what is there. For that you go into a scanner and lie full length. You do not move, very important, and will have removed all jewellery and metal objects. We are told then what we need to know. Naghmeh, I am being frank. We will look and see. I know my skills and what is beyond them. There are two stages. On the basis of what I find tonight I will know whether I can operate. I may believe I can but I offer no guarantee of success if I decide to do so. If I do not feel I have anything to give you, I will tell you so, with honesty. They are waiting for you. Maria will escort you. I assume, Naghmeh, that you do not speak English or German.’

She shook her head. He tried to smile, and reassure her. Why? They came through his consulting rooms at the university in Lubeck every week, people who were frightened, defiant, clinging to some small hope and trusting in him. Why? It was about the dignity of her face, about courage, and there was something of the Madonna in her features, as depicted in the statue that his wife and daughter knelt before each Sunday during services at the Marienkirche. There was depth in her eyes, and majesty. He had no mother or anything of her to treasure beyond vague memories from when he was a small child; a few photographs had been left behind in Tehran and would now be lost. He thought Naghmeh was how he would have wanted his mother to be.

The nurse came, took the wife’s arm and led her out of the room. The husband began to follow but was brusquely turned away by the nurse. The door closed.

He said, with aggression, ‘What work do you do in Iran that warrants such secrecy – or am I not to be told?’

Already he knew part of the answer. The man did not have the stature of a soldier. He was not old enough for high rank in the Revolutionary Guard Corps, and did not possess the chill in the eyes that the consultant presumed would be evidence of work in intelligence. When he himself had spoken of MRI scans and hydrogen atoms, there had been no confusion on the man’s forehead. He was a scientist or an engineer.