Beautiful Things by Hunter Biden (paper ebook reader txt) 📕

XYSENTINEL from the file photo.

“Salaam,” he smiled as he got in the car.

Yazdi smiled back and revealed his gold tooth, the final recognition signal.

14. Tehran: Imam Khomeini International Airport

The lights in the passenger cabin of Emirates Flight 971 from Dubai went on, the overhead TV screens went out, and the purser read his laminated card over the loudspeaker system.

“We will be landing at Khomeini Airport in a few minutes. All female passengers are requested to cover themselves in keeping with the laws and customs of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

Kella, who had flown from Paris and changed planes in Dubai, pulled out a scarf from her purse and put it on. An Iranian woman about five years older than Kella’s mid-thirties hid her fashionable Western clothes under a full black chador and covered her dark hair. She and Kella had chatted briefly during the flight.

The woman smiled across the aisle at Kella who wondered how this woman could look so good through the hassle of international travel. Good cheekbones, full lips, even white teeth, and big dark eyes underscored with eyeliner completed the perfect oval of her face. Beautiful, sad, and not quite at peace.

Wondering what was underneath the beauty, Kella turned to answering questions on her landing card. Name: Kella Hastings; Nationality: French; Occupation: Travel Writer; Reason for Visit: Business; Address in Country of Origin: 12 Rue Pierre Loti, Clermont Ferrand, France; Address in Iran: Hotel Esteghlal.

After the Boeing 777-200 landed, they were side by side in the middle aisle getting their hand-carry luggage together. They had met during the flight. It was Kella’s first real chance to live her cover. The woman said, “I was so happy to meet you. I don’t often get a chance to use my French. Would you like to share a cab into town?”

When Kella didn’t answer immediately, the woman added, “It is done frequently here, you know.”

“I would love that Farah. I could probably use help bargaining with the driver over the fare.”

The passengers disembarked into the modern Imam Khomeini International Airport under the watchful eyes of security guards patrolling in pairs. Kella, having been an intelligence officer with the DGSE (the French version of the CIA) for a short period, recognized their submachine guns as Takavas, the Iranian version of the Heckler & Koch MP5 used by over forty countries. They hung from their shoulders with barrels held parallel to the ground and were most often pointed at the arriving and departing passengers.

Kella and Farah waited in line to go through Customs. When it was her turn the official behind the glass asked Kella, “What is your business?”

“I write travel books.” When that reply didn’t seem to satisfy, she added, “I want to write about Iranian culture and history.”

She was rewarded with a nod and her stamped passport.

While waiting for their luggage in the baggage area, Kella said, “Farah, do you work? What do you do when you’re not shopping in Dubai?”

“Oh yes! I have a small bookshop. I also handle some paintings. I get them from families that used to be in better circumstances, you know,” she glanced around and lowered her voice. “During the Shah. I was worried for you at passport control. Writers are not above suspicion. Last week, a girl was sentenced to eight years in prison. She had been a writer and reporter for CNN and other news organizations. It didn’t matter that she was a dual citizen, an American-Iranian. On the contrary, the court did not recognize her American citizenship. An Iranian blogger is still in prison after a year, without charges. He wrote about the arts mostly, and movies, but the authorities said he was disloyal.”

They retrieved their luggage and continued their conversation in the taxi. Farah asked, “What do you hope to do while you are here?”

“I think there is a market in Europe for a book on Iran today, Iran since the revolution, the real Iran. At least I convinced my publisher there is. All we hear is about either centrifuges, or about the Holocaust, or about Israel and the Palestinians, or human rights and women.”

The luggage carousel was not turning, and no suitcases had appeared. Most passengers were waiting patiently although one man in a rumpled suit and gray shirt but no tie started speaking in a loud voice. With a half-suppressed laugh, Farah said, “He is saying that Iran is becoming more modern, like America and Europe; passengers are transported through the air as fast as a mullah accepts a bribe but suitcases on the ground are slower than the reforms promised at each election.”

Returning to Kella’s reason for coming to Iran, Farah said, “Are Europeans really interested?”

Kella half-expected the comedian to be arrested on the spot but most of the passengers laughed in agreement. She said, “I think that people are curious about real life. You’re scaring me with those stories of writers thrown in prison. I’m not interested in state secrets, only on how people live, what their concerns are, how foreigners would be received here if they came on vacation for example, about the art and the culture of the country in the last thirty years.”

“Human rights and women are real life. You sound like you need a guide. I would be happy to show you around. Maybe you would like to meet my friends.”

Kella was pleased. “You would be willing to do that? Wonderful! You are going to be my good luck charm.” Farah seemed bright and helpful. She could be a friend to help her with her cover. With luck, she could be helpful in other ways as well.

On their way into town, portraits of boys and young men, some with gentle gazes others with self-conscious grins, some but not all in uniform or in a military setting, all ordinary, like family pictures rather than the glossy and