The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,93

listening to the phone call would think that he had been planning ahead, to take care of his unhappy and ill-used cousin from the Pasdaran.

Jackie’s Iranian friend arrived early that morning at the Aziz Apartment Hotel to collect her. She came downstairs to greet him, draping her arms around him in a way that made the desk clerk and bellman uncomfortable. She would be leaving her room for a few days, she told the desk clerk in her singsong German-accented English. Her friend was taking her to Isfahan, the beautiful town in central Iran that was his ancestral home. She would leave some of her luggage at the Aziz Hotel, to collect when she returned. She took a wad of hundred-dollar bills from her big purse and peeled off two thousand dollars to pay for the room charges so far, which totaled less than half that amount, and to hold the room for when she returned.

The desk clerk said he couldn’t possibly accept so much money, but then he did, quite happily. The bellman loaded two of her Louis Vuitton bags into the trunk of her Iranian friend’s Mercedes, and they left two bags for storage. They got into the beautiful new car; the Iranian opened the sunroof, and as they drove off, the wind blew off her scarf, exposing for a moment that silky thread of blond hair.

Molavi went across the street to a kebabi for lunch, and brought the food back to his desk. He looked so forlorn now that even the security guard at the door, a burly man whose face had been badly scarred in the Iraq-Iran war, told him that he should go home and rest. Perhaps later, murmured Molavi.

They would be relieved tomorrow when he didn’t come to work. He was taking care of himself, they would say, and keeping his germs at home. If they called his home and got no answer, they would think he had gone to the doctor, or even the hospital. And then it would be Friday and the Muslim weekend. It would be a week before anyone really missed him.

He sat at his desk until it was nearly three. He buttoned his coat up tight around his neck as if he were suffering from chills, and then picked up his briefcase and headed out the door. He stopped by Dr. Bazargan’s office but the director was out, so he told the secretary that he was feeling ill and going home. The secretary suggested that he should see a doctor. Molavi said he would do that tomorrow if he didn’t feel better. He shuffled down the hall to the receptionist, who gave him one more piteous look as he gingerly walked out the door.

A policeman stopped Jackie’s Mercedes as they were spinning along the Resalat Highway. He was an upright young man with a bushy beard, who squinted at them with a busybody’s suspicious eyes. He didn’t like the looks of this European woman driving in a fancy car with an Iranian man. The driver asked what was wrong, and when the policeman said they weren’t wearing seat belts, Jackie almost laughed. But it wasn’t funny. The cop was asking to see the driver’s papers for the car, and then he was saying that something wasn’t in order and that he would need to call his superiors on the radio for advice.

The Iranian was nimble. He asked the officer if he could speak to him privately. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked to the back of the car, half hidden from the road. He talked with the policeman respectfully, humbly, and then said something that made the cop laugh. Then they were shaking hands, and Jackie knew that a bribe had passed from one man to the other.

“What did you tell him?” asked Jackie.

“I told him that you were a German whore, and that I only had a few hours with you. I asked him as a man to have pity on me. I told him I had borrowed the car to impress you.”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course he did,” said the Iranian. “I told him what he already believed. I made it a question of shame. If he detained me, I would lose face—not to mention my sexual pleasure. No Iranian will humiliate another.”

Jackie shook her head.

“Bollocks,” she said. “You were lucky. Don’t get stopped again.”

SARI, IRAN

Karim Molavi wobbled down the steps of the white building in Jamaran and took the first taxi from the