on the table. ‘Under the old Shah things went to hell in a bucket. He was running Iran on the lines of the old Roman Empire – in order to keep in sweet with the populace he kept the price of grain down to an artificial low level. That was a self-defeating policy because the farmers found they couldn’t make a living growing grain, so they planted poppies instead – a much more profitable crop. So there was less and less grain and more and more opium.’ He grimaced. ‘The old Shah didn’t mind because he created the Opium Monopoly; there was a government tax and he got a rake-off from every pound collected.’
‘A sweet story,’ said Tozier.
‘You haven’t heard the half of it. In 1936 Iranian opium production was 1,350 metric tons. World requirements of medicinal opium were 400 tons.’
Tozier jerked. ‘You mean the old bastard was smuggling the stuff.’
‘He didn’t need to,’ said Warren. ‘It wasn’t illegal. He was the law in Iran. He just sold the stuff to anyone who had the money to pay for it. He was on to a good thing, but all good things come to an end. He pushed his luck too far and was forced to abdicate. There was a provisional government for a while, and then the present Shah took over. Now, he was a really bright boy. He wanted to drag this woebegone country into the twentieth century by the scruff of its neck, but he found that you can’t have industrialism in a country where seventy-five per cent of the population are opium addicts. So he clamped down hard and fast, and I doubt if you can find an ounce of illegal opium in the country today.’
Tozier looked baffled. ‘Then what is Speering doing here?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Warren blandly. ‘But I don’t propose asking him outright.’
‘No,’ said Tozier pensively. ‘But we stick to him closer than his shirt.’
A waiter came and and said enquiringly, ‘Mistair Warren?’
‘I’m Warren.’
‘A message for you, sair.’
‘Thank you,’ Warren raised his eyebrows at Tozier as he tipped the waiter. A minute later he said, ‘It’s from Lane. Speering has given up his reservation – he’s leaving tomorrow. Lane doesn’t know where he’s going, but his jeep has been serviced and there are water cans in the back. What do you suppose that means?’
‘He’s leaving Tehran,’ said Tozier with conviction. ‘I’d better get back to check on the trucks; I’d like to see if the radios are still in working order. We’ll leave separately – give me five minutes.’
Warren waited impatiently for the time to elapse, then got up and walked out of the bar. As he passed Speering he almost stopped out of sheer surprise. Speering was sitting with Johnny Follet and they were both tossing coins.
IV
Speering headed north-west from Tehran on the road to Qazvin. ‘You get ahead of him and I’ll stick behind,’ said Tozier to Warren. ‘We’ll have him like the meat in a sandwich. If he turns off the road I’ll get on to you on the blower.’
They had kept an all night watch on Speering’s jeep but it had been a waste of time. He had a leisurely breakfast and did not leave Tehran until ten, and with him was a sharp-featured Iranian as chauffeur. They trailed the jeep through thick traffic out of the city and once they were on the main road Warren put on a burst of speed, passed Speering, and then slowed down to keep a comfortable distance ahead. Follet, in the passenger seat, kept a sharp eye astern, using the second rear view mirror which was one of Tozier’s modifications.
To the right rose the snow-capped peaks of the Elburz Mountains but all around was a featureless plain, dusty and monotonous. The road was not particularly good as far as Warren could judge, but he had been educated to more exacting standards than the Iranian driver and he reflected that by Iranian standards it was probably excellent. After all, it was the main arterial highway to Tabriz.
As soon as he became accustomed to driving the Land-Rover he said to Follet abruptly, ‘You were talking to Speering last night. What about?’
‘Just passing the time of day,’ said Follet easily.
‘Don’t make a mistake, Johnny,’ said Warren softly. ‘You could get hurt – badly.’
‘Hell, it was nothing,’ protested Follet. ‘It wasn’t even my doing. He came over to me – what else was I expected to do besides talk to him?’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘This and that. Our jobs. I told him I was with Regent Films. You know – all this crap about the film we’re making. He said he worked for an oil company.’ He laughed. ‘I took some of his money off him, too.’
‘I saw you,’ said Warren acidly. ‘What did you use – a two-headed penny?’
Follet raised his hands in mock horror. ‘As God is my judge, I didn’t cheat him. You know that’s not my style. I didn’t have to, anyway; he was pretty near blind drunk.’ His eyes flicked up to the mirror. ‘Slow down a bit – we’re losing him.’
From Tehran to Qazvin was nearly a hundred miles and it was almost one o’clock when they neared the outskirts of the town. As they were driving through the loudspeaker crackled into life. ‘Calling Regent Two. Calling Regent Two. Over.’
Follet picked up the microphone and thumbed the switch. ‘You’re coming in fine, Regent One. Over.’
Tozier’s voice was thin and distorted. ‘Our man has stopped at a hotel. I think he’s feeding his face. Over.’
‘That’s a damned good idea; I’m hungry myself,’ said Follet, and raised an eyebrow at Warren.
‘We’ll pull off the road at the other side of town,’ said Warren. ‘Tell him that.’ He carried on until he was well past the outskirts of Qazvin and then pulled up on a hard shoulder. ‘There’s a hamper in the back,’ he said. ‘I gave Ben the job of quartermaster; let’s see how good he is.’
Warren felt better after chicken sandwiches and hot coffee from a flask, but Follet seemed gloomy. ‘What a crummy country,’ he said. ‘We’ve travelled a hundred miles and those goddam mountains haven’t changed an inch.’ He pointed to a string of laden camels coming down the road. ‘What’s the betting we end up on the back of a thing like that?’
‘We could do worse,’ said Warren thoughtfully. ‘I have the idea that these Land-Rovers are a shade too conspicuous for a shadowing job like this.’ He picked up a map. ‘I wonder where Speering is going.’
Follet looked over his shoulder. ‘The next town is Zanjan – another hundred goddam miles.’ He looked around. ‘Christ, isn’t this country horrible? Worse than Arizona.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Hell, I was born there. I got out by the time I was old enough to run away. I’m a city boy at heart. The bright lights for me.’ He hummed a phrase of Broadway Melody and reached forward and took a pack of cards from the dash shelf. ‘I’ll be going back, too, so I’d better keep in practice.’
Warren heard the crisp flick of
