The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,20
officer of the Etelaat-e Sepah, the Revolutionary Guard’s intelligence service, which had responsibility for the security of the nuclear program.
“Salamat baush,” continued the officer. Good health to you. He observed the rituals of Muslim greeting, even when he barged in the door.
“Alhamdollah,” returned the young Iranian. Thanks God. He felt a moistness glistening on his forehead. He wanted to flee, but that was impossible. Be calm, he told himself. They have come like this before. It is probably nothing.
“We would like to ask you some questions, Doctor.”
“Yes, certainly. Please sit down.” He felt naked. He wished he had a beard to hide behind, instead of showing all this skin.
“I am afraid your office would not be convenient. I think some other place. We have apologized to Dr. Bazargan.” He nodded toward the director, still standing anxiously just outside the door.
“My work is important,” said the young scientist. That was his only card of authority.
“Yes, Doctor. Of course. Thanks God.”
The officer did not say that it was all routine, that it would be over quickly, that he would be back at work soon. The young man reached in his pocket for his handkerchief and patted his forehead before it got wetter. The handkerchief felt cool on the skin and the sweat stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Perhaps this would be easy. They couldn’t know. He had been careful.
The scientist reached for his valise, but the officer told him not to bring anything except his passport. The two security men followed him out the door, one on either side, a few steps behind. As they entered the main corridor, faces peered out from the other offices to see who the authorities had summoned. The office in Jamaran was morbid that way. They never talked about security, but every six months or so someone disappeared and never came back. Usually the person resurfaced on some other island of the scientific archipelago—thinner, quieter, more cautious. Nobody ever spoke about what happened. That was part of the price of working on sensitive projects. You never knew when the floor under you might give way, or how far you might fall.
The young man could hear his own footsteps echoing in the corridor. He walked past several of his friends. One winked and gave a faint wave, but the others looked away.
The officers led the young doctor to a new black Samand sedan and put him in the backseat. They asked if he wanted the air-conditioning on, and when he said yes, they turned it up full blast. There was a police radio in the front seat, and the driver had a fat pistol in a shoulder holster. On the dashboard was a red light and a siren, but they didn’t turn it on. The young man waited for the blindfold. It was whispered that when the security men took people away to interrogation, they blindfolded them. But not today.
Outside it was high summer in Tehran. People with money had gone to their villas on the Caspian Sea or, if they had real money, to the Cap d’Antibes or the Costa del Sol. The city was a mélange of sounds and smells: ripe melons in the market stalls; kebabs grilling on outdoor charcoals in the parks; the birdsong of the car horns. In the heat, people didn’t try so hard to look pious.
As they drove past one of the offices of the Ministry of Intelligence, the lead officer muttered a curse that sounded like, “Gooz be reeshet,” which meant, roughly, “Fart on your beard.” The young scientist laughed, despite his predicament. It was well known that the Revolutionary Guard hated the Ministry of Intelligence. It was a common joke around town—a rivalry like between Persepolis and Esteghlal in soccer.
A silence settled around the car. It was a bubble, floating among other bubbles. The young man waited for the fear to come back, but it didn’t. Instead he felt an odd sense of power. He was in control. They were guessing; he knew.
They took the scientist to a building he had never seen before. It was off the Resalat Highway, north of the airport. It was late morning, so the traffic was light. Nobody talked on the way over—not the driver, not the headman in the green suit, not his thickset assistant who sat alongside in the backseat and who probably had a gun, too, under his ill-fitting jacket.
The young man tried to lose himself in the ordinary sights of Tehran out the window. The teenage