The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,94
queue across the street. He wanted to look feeble and unwell, but inside he was elated. His escape had begun. He told the driver to take him to Yazdeni Street in Yoosef Abad. His instructions had been to go from work to the bus station, but he had decided that was unwise. They would ask the cab driver later, when he didn’t show up at work next week, where he had taken Dr. Molavi. The pieces of the story had to fit right.
When he got to his apartment, he changed out of his black business suit into a pair of slacks and a warm shirt and jacket, and added a cap that would partially cover his face. He exchanged his leather slip-ons for some rubber-soled shoes, in case he would need to do some hiking. How did one escape from Iran? Over mountains or deserts? He had no idea. He added another pair of underwear and two pairs of socks to his kit, and put it all in a simple canvas bag, leaving the briefcase behind. He checked his wallet to make sure he had all his identification cards. The special phone was in his pocket. He was afraid to touch it. He wished he had his passport, but they had already taken that. His rescuers would have to improvise. He headed for the door and then stopped.
What else could he do, to make it look as if he had expected to come back? He put some food in the microwave, and he turned on the television set in his bedroom, with the volume low enough that it wouldn’t disturb the neighbors. What more? He wrote himself a little list of things to do—pick up the laundry, go to the dentist, buy a new shower curtain. He left it on his desk. Nobody thinks about buying a new shower curtain if they are planning to flee the country.
Molavi left his apartment by the back door and took an alleyway to the next street, heading north. That was the opposite direction from the one he usually traveled. He walked a few blocks to Farhang Square and waited for a taxi. A rusted orange Paykan, normally a group taxi, rumbled toward him. He called out his destination—the Eastern bus terminal. The driver shouted back, “Dar baste?” which meant “Closed-door?” It was an offer to drive the passenger alone if he would pay the single tariff. Molavi nodded yes. The fewer people who saw him on this trip, the better.
Molavi sat in front, next to the driver. There was a Koran on the dashboard, and a blue-colored ornament dangling from the rearview mirror, to guard against the evil eye. The driver wasn’t in a mood to talk, fortunately. The Paykan rolled east, spewing exhaust. The afternoon traffic was heavy, the air so thick with smog that it caught in Molavi’s throat. Now he was coughing for real. When they reached the Damavand Highway, the road opened up a bit and the air got fresher. Molavi looked at his watch. It was nearly four. He had no idea how often the buses left for Sari, but he wanted to find one quickly and disappear into the seat.
The Eastern terminal was at the far edge of the city. Molavi arrived a little after four and bought a seat on a bus that was scheduled to depart at four-thirty. There were police in the bus station, but nobody paid him any attention. He had an odd feeling of invisibility; people saw him, certainly, but they did not begin to understand who he was. He bought a magazine and a sandwich for the road, along with a bottle of mineral water, and waited to board. This bus didn’t have a separate men’s and women’s section, unlike the ones in the city. But women sat with women; men with men. Molavi took a lone seat near the back and hoped nobody would join him.
He settled into the seat. It was a new Volvo bus, a “super,” as the Iranians called it. The seat was comfortable. With a loud honk of the horn, the bus rolled out of the terminal. Nobody had claimed the seat next to him. Molavi took a bite of his sandwich. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he began to relax.
The trip was so achingly beautiful that it made Molavi wonder for a moment if he really was ready to leave Iran. For the first few miles east, the road skirted forest parkland, rich