Northern Iran, December 17

There'd been nothing in any of the guides for overland tour operators that covered being kidnapped by an armed group during a palace coup - if that, indeed, is what had just happened in Tehran. 'Contact the nearest embassy' had been the closest remedy mentioned under the heading 'Encountering lets and hindrances'.
     Is this a 'let' or a 'hindrance'? And what's the difference between the two, for goodness sake?
     We were approaching a small town called Gorgan from where the Michelin showed a road heading north-east to the Turkmenistan border.
     Surely they're not going to take us to Russia.
     I'd like to have asked Ian, if he'd been with us, how relations were between Iran and Turkmenistan. I guessed that little known country would be Muslim, but whether Sunni or Shia, I had no idea, and if I did know I wouldn't have known what difference it would make. I didn't even know whether this coup had been Sunni led or Shia led, or whether it was both, or neither.
     As it turned out, though, Turkmenistan wasn't on anyone's agenda. We didn't even stop at Gorgan, but carried on back to Sari where our captor directed me to stop at the police station. There was no sign of the Russian saloon.
     The police station was no longer the sleepy little out-post that we'd left four hours before, though. Now it was surrounded by a crowd of rifle carrying men who viewed our arrival with hostility.
     Our captor shouted admonitions at the men who surged towards us, and he hustled us rapidly out of the Land Rover, through the reception room and the dark little office behind, straight into a sunny courtyard containing a well and a few small fruit trees. It also contained two corpses, their blood soaking into the hard beaten ground; both wore police uniforms and I recognised one of them. I thought I was going to be sick.
     The cells were on the far side of the courtyard; here we were separated and locked up without formality. No one said anything to me, either in English or Farsi, and I watched as my passengers were ushered into individual cells. Bruce was dragged away from a weeping Janey, Mary, looking dazed, walked into hers unaided and Saktari, most un-Charley-like, allowed himself to be pushed into his without complaint. I didn't see Ian, but I assumed he'd been locked up immediately after he'd arrived.
     I'd often wondered how ordinary people, caught up in extraordinary events, adjust to their ordeal. I was soon going to find out.
     I could hear Janey sobbing and Bruce trying to reassure her through the grill in his door. My own cell was at the end of a long corridor, with Saktari's next to mine, Bruce's next to his, Janey's, then Mary's. None of us had been searched, presumably because we hadn't been allowed to take our hold-alls when we'd left the Land Rover, so I still had my watch, Saktari's paper, which I still hadn't read, my fold-up Michelin map and a ball-point pen. There was a dim electric light covered by a protective mesh grill set into the ceiling, so I was able to see well enough to read.
     Saktari's paper was a letter with an embossed heading in Farsi, but because the writing was also in Farsi it meant nothing to me. It was signed; under the signature was an impressive title and stamp. I didn't know whether it would prove to be an asset or a liability. Everything would depend on whose hands we'd fallen into.
     I tapped on the wall and it was immediately answered by Saktari. Although the adjoining walls were of double-thickness we could converse by pushing our faces to the small grill in the door.
     "These people are Shias. It is they who are taking control in Iran. They will purge Savak and will already have made many arrests."
     "What about the letter?"
     "It is a safe conduct from the Minister for the Interior. I have no idea where his allegiance now lies. Some high ranking officials will have already changed sides."
     "Has the west responded yet?"
     "President Carter so far is not supporting the Shah. That is our only hope. If he does support him, then we are all in serious trouble."
     "Aren't we in trouble anyway?"
     Saktari chuckled. "I can see you have never been in this sort of position before -"
     He broke off as a door was opened at the far end of the corridor and footsteps approached.
     They're coming for you already, Gregory.
     My door was unlocked by one of the men from the grey saloon who beckoned me to follow him. As I passed each cell a frightened face watched my progress. Then I was in the courtyard again. The corpses had gone, but I could smell the blood and I could hear women wailing outside. I looked up at the sky. I realised how much I might miss it.
     So this is what it's like to lose your freedom.
     My interrogator was waiting for me in the office to the right of the reception area. The light was dim and a table lamp had been placed on the desk, so I could barely make him out. He was seated and flanked by two of the men from the Russian saloon.
     "Do you wish cigarette, Mr Alexander?"
     "No thank you. I don't smoke."
     "A drink water, yes?"
     I hadn't drunk anything since lunch-time and it was already late afternoon. I suppose I'd been too anxious to think about mere thirst.
     "Yes, please."
     A grubby carafe of water and a glass were brought in. I hadn't realised quite how thirsty I was. As I drank I wondered what sort of questions I'd have to answer. Would they be about Saktari? Or Mary?
     How much do these people know?
     "Revolution is winning Tehran; is good for every peoples in Iran. We have much cleaning to do. Shah's peoples needs washing out of country. Your Government and Oil Company give Shah power. Now your Government peoples will pay much penalty."
     "We are not Government people. We are tourists. We travel to India. We only stopped in Tehran to mend our Land Rover."
     "You say not Government. We say are Government."
     "My papers in the car say that I am a tour operator."
     "Papers. Papers. Papers say anything Government want them say."
     I'm not going down that route.
     "I want to know why my party has been …" I realised he wouldn't understand 'kidnapped', " … stolen?"
     "We have not stolen you peoples, Mr Alexander. We wish to know what you do in our country. State of emergency has been maked and we must check to all foreign peoples who still in country."
     "It feels like we have been stolen."
     "Why you not return own country on planes embassies sent you yesterday?"
     "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware they had done that."
     "Where stay Tehran?"
     "At the Hotel Tabriz."
     "Did not manager tell?"
     "No, and when I tried to phone my embassy I couldn't get through."
     "Telephones are broken in all city."
     Thank God, this is just a routine precaution.
     "English Information on radio every news time."
     "We don't have a radio. When I heard there'd been a coup, I decided to leave the country as quickly as possible."
     "Did you say coup, Mr Alexander? I know this French word. How you know about coup?"
     "It … er … was common knowledge … I thought everyone knew."
     "Everyone? Hotel manager say nothing you? You not speaking embassy; you no have radio. How you known what happen Tehran?"
     You idiot, Gregory. I only had Saktari's word for what was happening.
     "Mr Alexander, what you not telling me? You not speaking Farsi. No people you meet - waiter, cleaner, cook - know what happen Tehran. You know what going happen before something happen?"
     "No. Of course I didn't. How could I …?"
     "How did know there is coup; if has been coup?"
     My mother used to say, 'If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging'. She also used to say, 'If you can't answer a question, ask one back'.
     "Could I ask you a question, please?"
     "Yes."
     "Who are you?"
     "I did not say I give answer."
     I couldn't see his eyes, but I hope he smiled when he said that - of course that was my wishful thinking.
     Should I admit to Saktari's visits? I could do it without compromising him. Or, could I? I was out of my depth. This man had broken me down virtually with his first question. You bloody idiot, Alexander!
     "I waiting reply, Mr Alexander. Who tell you?"
     "I had a visit from a man who said he was from the police - he told me what was happening in Tehran."
     "And this man - his name?"
     "Saktari. Inspector Saktari - of Savak - I think he said."
     "Why Savak want speak you?"
     "I have no idea."
     "You do have idea, Mr Alexander. Your Government gives you idea."
     "No. My Government does not know I am in Iran."
     My interrogator paused, then he talked quietly to the man on his left.
     "Now we making progress, Mr Alexander. Why?"
     "Why are we making progress?"
     "No. Why this officer visit you at hotel?"
     Don't let him suck you into this; you don't know how far you can go.
     "He said … he said it was to warn us … about the coup."
     "He say that? You see what you make me to think, Mr Alexander. You make me to think there is something bad in your visit in Tehran. Something bad why this Saktari man visit you in hotel. Savak not interest in tourist. Savak interest in political peoples."
         "No. There was nothing bad in our visit to Tehran. I and my friends are not political. We are travellers. We have no other business in your country."
     For the next hour I offered a description of my passengers and the reason for us all being in Iran, much like I'd given to Saktari on his first visit.
     "That will finish questions today. I see your other peoples in morning."
     Thank God for that.
     As I was escorted back, each grilled aperture framed a face - a fearful, questioning face - apart from Saktari's. When I tapped on the wall there was no reply. Neither had I spotted Ian, even though there was another empty cell along the corridor.
     A raised wooden platform at the back of my cell, complete with a threadbare and grubby blanket, and, in the far corner, a foul-smelling latrine pit, were the cell's only furnishings. I found that, if I curled up tightly, the platform was just large enough to sleep on; had I been an inch taller I would have had to sit up all night. I thanked God that I still had my jacket; even though it was thin linen it kept out the worst of the cold.
     A guard was positioned by the door thwarting any chance I might have had to talk to the others, but when I tried to get him to bring our sleeping bags in from the Land Rover he either didn't understand or he chose not to understand.
     I surmised that the Land Rover must still have been parked outside; it had a peculiar whine when it was started from cold so I would have known had anyone tried to move it, since earlier I'd clearly heard the policemen's widow's wails through the walls. With that cheery thought I'd fallen asleep. I must have been very tired.

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