The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,21

boy talking on his cell phone on the sidewalk; the girls primping in the backseat of the car next to them, perhaps off to have their toenails polished or their legs waxed. The space needle in Nasr Park, so tall and ugly; which people imagined was really a big listening tower for the secret police. The noisy knot of young men outside the filmi shop in Sadegiyeh Square that rented the latest pirated DVDs. The kebabis beckoning people for a midmorning snack.

The headman told the driver to turn right near the Azadi Monument on the edge of the airport. Azadi. Freedom. What a joke. Its four massive pillars had been built by the shah in 1971 to last for all the generations of Pahlavi rulers to come. That dynasty survived just eight more years. The young man’s father had come here to protest the shah, in the crazy days of the revolution. Ostad, the young bearded men had called his father. Honored teacher. The scientist was only a baby at the time, but he had heard the stories retold so often. He knew this was why the Revolutionary Guard and the MOI and all the other guardians of the new regime had trusted him, even though he was from the old elite. They reasoned that he was a child of the revolution. He would feed off revenge. And they were right in that, although not in the way they imagined.

The car turned into a side street, and then another, and soon they were at a walled compound. There were guards at the front gate; and then, at a second gate, there was a more elaborate checkpoint. They searched the young man thoroughly, emptying every item from his pocket: his pens, his wallet, his eyeglasses. They patted him down and then, not satisfied, they took him into a room and a guard asked him to drop his trousers. That was unusual. Even in the most secret parts of the archipelago, they did not shame people in that way. As he pulled his pants back on a few moments later, he gathered what he imagined as an invisible cloak around him, the cloak his father had described as his solace and protection, which was woven of fear.

The office was modern, like a doctor’s conference room. The interrogator sat behind a teak desk. He had the latest issue of The Economist in front of him, and a copy of the International Herald Tribune that was just a day old. He must be very powerful. As the young scientist entered the office, the interrogator was looking at a flat-screen monitor. He tapped in a few commands and then studied what appeared on the screen and smiled. A formula for interrogation, perhaps.

The interrogator turned toward the scientist. He wore a goatee that was trimmed neatly, like a jazz musician’s, and there was an unlikely twinkle in his eye.

“Hello, Esteemed Doctor,” said the interrogator. He said that his name was Mehdi Esfahani, and he showed the young man his identification card from his service, the Etelaat-e Sepah, as if that made it all proper. He looked very merry, almost as if he were trying to suppress a chuckle. He stared back at the screen and then laughed aloud.

“I am sorry, Doctor. Do you like jokes? The American kind. From the Internet, you know. Jokes about blond women who are stupid. Jokes about priests, rabbis, and ministers. Jokes about people called ‘rednecks.’ I collect them, you see. People send them to me from all over. Even from America. Can you imagine that? Do you like them, these Internet jokes?”

The scientist didn’t know how to respond. The question was so odd. What was the right answer?

“A little, I guess. I don’t see them very often. My work—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Your work. But you use the Internet of course.”

“Yes, for my work.” What was he getting at? Did he know something? The scientist couldn’t tell, the man’s manner was so peculiar.

“My favorite are the redneck jokes. Do you know this word? The Americans use it to describe someone who is not too smart. You know you’re a redneck when your wife has to move the transmission to take a bath. That is one.” He laughed aloud. “That is very funny, don’t you think? You know you’re a redneck when your house gets a parking ticket. Isn’t that amusing? They live in mobile homes, apparently, these rednecks.”

Mehdi Esfahani was waiting for the young scientist to laugh, but there was