reporting for the Ministry of Intelligence, of course, not that the Nigerians had any real secrets to steal. But it was enough to get Azadi his permission to travel abroad. He gave the driver a few tomans and began walking south, back toward Foroozan Street, approaching the apartment from the other direction. He wasn’t so scared now. They weren’t here. They knew nothing about him. The British were powerful. They were devious and vile, as every Iranian knew, but they were the clever ones. How could someone be in danger if he was in the hands of the Little Satan?
Azadi entered a modern apartment building, next to another new one that was still under construction. Everything was being rebuilt in this part of town. Iranians living abroad were sending money home to buy apartments for their parents or their cousins, or just to sit empty. The English must have played that game to get their safe house. They had found an Iranian businessman in Geneva or Frankfurt and had him fill out the paperwork, and wire money to the right bank accounts in Dubai. It was just another “hot” apartment, bought quasi-legally as an investment. The exiles were convinced the mullahs could not last much longer, so they speculated in real estate. They didn’t care about politics, these rich exiles. That was the problem. They would never pry power loose from the street urchins of South Tehran who filled the ranks of the Basij and the Pasdaran. The good people were always too soft.
Azadi rang the bell of an apartment on the third floor and waited.
The Englishman opened the door a crack. He called himself Simon Hughes, but Azadi knew that must be a false name. Why did they bother? He could call himself “John Bull,” and that would be fine. He had red hair and a big belly, and big glasses that shielded his eyes. It must be a disguise. That was what these spies did. They changed costumes like they were in a Hollywood movie. “Simon Hughes” didn’t say a word until they were in the salon and he had turned up the radio. He began by repeating the time of the next scheduled meeting, in Doha in three months. Why hadn’t they stuck to that plan? Something must be wrong.
“We are looking for someone,” said the Englishman. He sounded so serious, but he wasn’t very old. He was in his early thirties, probably no older than Azadi himself. He spoke good Persian. The British did that right. Were they all spies, all the people who graduated from the schools of Oriental studies at Oxford and London? Was that their secret?
“Who are you looking for?” asked Azadi. “Can you give me a name?”
“No,” said the Englishman. “But the person we want may be looking for you. That’s how you will know him. Or her, possibly.”
Azadi was confused, and also worried. “Why will he be looking for me? Please? Does he know who I am?” There was a tremor in his voice.
“No, he doesn’t know who you are. Not at all. But he will be expressing an interest in your scientific specialty. He will be asking about nuclear physics, X-ray physics. That is how you will know who he is. It is possible that he works at the Tehran Nuclear Research Center, or she. It is likely that he is a scientist, like you. If you learn of such a request, I want you to make note of the name and send it to me as soon as possible. And then I want you to forget it.”
Azadi nodded. He was really frightened now. He was putting his head into the mouth of the lion if this person worked at the TNRC. That was the place of “no one knows.”
The Englishman had some other requests. Had there been visits from foreign scientists to the lab at Tehran University where Azadi worked? Any new shipments of materials from the West, or new requests for suppliers of scientific equipment? They were always asking about that. You would have thought these British were selling laboratory equipment, from all their commercial requests. The Iranians had a saying: “The British have a hand in everything.” That was why people feared them, and loved them secretly, too. They were the puppet masters. They had their hands on the strings. How could the puppet not love the puppet master?
The Englishman went over the communications protocol one last time. Then he said goodbye and Azadi walked out the