Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Either the weapons came through Iran or the supplier is simply using crates that were manufactured there. At any rate, it's a lead.

Against the far wall of the room is a stack of four large, flat cases. They resemble electric guitar cases only they're much wider. I unsnap the clasps and open the top one.

Stingers. Four cases of Stingers, two in each case. Un-fucking-believable. These are American made. How the hell did they get them? Off to the side of the cases are two shoulder-launchers for the Stingers. These babies are terribly effective against low-level aircraft, such as helicopters, and a single man can fire one like a bazooka.

I make notes of the inventory on my OPSAT, take a few photographs, and leave the room. I move farther down the hall to a large steel door with bars in a window. The jail perhaps? I turn to the key ring again and unlock the door. It squeaks with rust and I wince. Hopefully no one is back there. I look inside and see a row of six barred cells. A small desk is to my left, but it is unmanned. There's nothing here except a hammer lying on it. Upon closer examination of the tool, I discern a substance that appears to be dried blood and perhaps fleshy material and hair on the hammerhead. I turn to leave, but something in the first cell catches my eye. At first I think it's a bundle of blankets, but I see now that there might be a figure lying on the cot. I turn on the lights and step closer to the cell. It is indeed a body, completely covered by a blanket. Is he dead?

I move to the next cell and there's another guy, covered by a blanket. The third, fourth, and fifth cells contain the same. Number six is empty. I look on the ring and try the keys until I find one that opens cell number one. I pull the blanket back, and sure enough, there's a guy with a bullet hole in his head. From what I can tell, he was shot in the back of the skull and the round exited through the front of his face. He is unrecognizable, of course. I pull the blanket back farther and see that the man is wearing only his underwear.

The man in the second cell received the same treatment, although it looks as if he was tortured before being killed. There are burn marks, probably from a cigarette, on his upper body. The third guy's right hand is mangled, as if someone had pounded it a few times with a hammer. Thehammer. The fourth man, like the first, was just shot.

I back out of the jail area and close the door behind me. I lock it again only because whoever had done this is sure to return. My friend in the outer lobby will be waking soon, and he probably knows a lot about what's going on here. Perhaps he's one of the killers.

I go back to the front of the building and see that the guard is still unconscious. He's breathing steadily, so I'm sure he'll recover with just a bad headache to remember me by. I make my way to the first corridor and head for the back door but decide to check out the office I saw upon entering. I open the door, step inside, and use my night vision to avoid turning on lights.

I have good reason to believe that this is the office of the chief of police. There are a couple of citations on the wall and a photo of the chief shaking hands with a man I figure is one of the Kurdish politicos. I look closely at the photo and I could swear that one of the dead guys in the jail cell is the chief. I'm not positive because the victims' faces were bloody messes. Even so, if I had to bet on it, I'd say that the guy in the photo is the man in the second cell, the one who had been tortured before being executed.

On the desk are several manila folders full of mug shots. I open the top folder and am surprised to see none other than No-Tooth. In fact, the top four photographs in the pile are the same four men who tried to steal my car and leave me for dead outside of Arbil. Notes on the back of each photo are written in Kurdistan script, but I can make out the words terrorist, wanted, and Iran.On the back of No-Tooth's photo is another word I recognize– Shadowswith a big question mark beside it.

It's all very clear to me. Those four bandits I encountered outside the city were here earlier. They killed the four realpolicemen and placed the corpses in the cells after stripping off and donning the uniforms. The bandits had wanted my Land Cruiser. To move the crates of weapons? One of them had said they were waiting for a truck to "move some boxes." Are those guys the Shop's customers? The Shop is selling arms to the Shadows? I have to say I'm not surprised. If the Shadows are the terrorist group du jour, then it makes sense that the Shop, the biggest illegal arms dealer in the world, would want them as customers.

I hear a car door slam outside. Shit. As keys rattle in the back door, I flatten against the wall of the office and hope whoever it is doesn't come in here.

Two voices. One man is laughing and speaking rapidly–in Arabic. I catch the words "police," "taking care of," and "move the boxes." The men walk past the office and continue to the outer lobby. I hear exclamations of surprise and concern when they find my friend on the floor. There's a groan and a slap and another groan. The guard is coming around. One of the men orders the other one to check on the weapons, and I hear him ask for the keys. More talk, the sound of moving things on the desk, and an angry shout. The keys are gone, of course. They're in my pocket.

The angry guy sounds familiar. I figure it's probably in my best interest to get a look at him. I reach into the Osprey and pull out a handy tool I call the "corner periscope." It's really a lot like a dentist's tool–it's a thin piece of metal with a small round mirror at the end. The metal is bendable so I can adapt it to just about any kind of space. It's best for looking around corners when you don't want to be noticed.

I quietly creep out of the office and snake down the hall with my back to the wall. When I reach the corner by the front office, I stick the mirror out and position it so I can see.

The guard is sitting in the chair, rubbing the back of his head. The angry guy is sitting on the desk in front of him, his back to me. The other man is behind the chair and looks concerned. He doesn't look familiar. Both of the new men are wearing police uniforms. I want the angry guy to turn around so I can see his face.

"What are you going to tell Ahmed?" the second man asks. I can now follow the conversation pretty well.

"I'll worry about that later," answers the angry guy. "It's more about what Ahmed will tell Tarighian!" He grabs the guard by the chin. "You sure you didn't see who did this to you?" The guard shakes his head. "Allah help me. Tarighian will be most displeased. We'd better find a way to break down that door. If our stuff is gone . . ."

Tarighian? Who the hell is Tarighian?

The angry guy turns slightly and I see his face. It's my old buddy No-Tooth, the one that got away. I knew I'd heard his voice before.

I could take them out if I wanted, but that's not my directive. I move away, down the hall and toward the back door. There's a garbage can beside the door, so I quietly lay the key ring inside. No need to make it easy for them. I'm sure the proper authorities will have the means to break down the doors if they have to.

I slip outside and run to the shadows on the opposite end of the parking lot. I crouch and then move quickly to the street, satisfied I'm not being followed. I run in the darkness to the Toyota, get inside, and crouch low in the seat just in case the goons come out and start to look around.

Using my OPSAT, I send a message to Colonel Petlow in Baghdad. I explain that the Arbil policemen were murdered by Shadows terrorists who are attempting to remove a shipment of illegal arms from the station. I blind-copy the report to Lambert in Washington and wait.

Approximately thirty-five minutes later I hear sirens. I'm surprised by the rapid response. I was afraid the terrorists would get away with the goods by the time the Iraqis or the U.S. Army arrived. I see three police vehicles pull up in front of the station, followed by a U.S. Army jeep with four soldiers inside. I'd like to give them a hand, but I need to stay innocuous. So I sit back with an intention to watch and enjoy the fireworks.

But to my horror the terrorists suddenly appear from behind the building, firing AK-47s at the policemen. Three Iraqi police fall to the ground and the others jump behind cover. I recognize No-Tooth as the terrorist ring-leader. He throws something into the midst of the vehicles, and a few seconds later it explodes with a powerful blast. The grenade destroys the U.S. Army jeep and most likely kills or seriously wounds the four American soldiers. I now seriously consider joining the fight, but before I can make a move a van pulls around from the back of the building. The terrorists jump inside and the van speeds away with a screech.

I curse at myself for not doing something sooner–but what could I have done? I'm not supposed to interact with the local law enforcement without authorization. Could I have made a difference? I honestly don't know. Next time, though, I think I'll go with my instincts and buck the directives.

Approaching sirens wail some distance away, and a few seconds later I see more police cars and an ambulance arrive at the scene. There's nothing I can do now; I have to let the Iraqis handle it.

Disgruntled, I start the Toyota and drive away.

11

ANDREIZdrok was in a foul mood.

His driver let him off in front of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank, pausing long enough to receive instructions regarding when to return to pick up his employer. The Mercedes sped away and Zdrok strode toward the heavy glass doors. Just before entering the building, though, he looked at his Rolex and saw that he had fifteen minutes before the meeting. He decided that a bagel and coffee might go a long way toward improving his frame of mind.

He made a detour and crossed the avenue to the bakery. Even Andrei Zdrok agreed with the food critics that Zabat's was the best bakery in Zurich. That it happened to be in the financial district was a plus for its proprietors. They sold hundreds of bagels, muffins, rolls, and pastries daily to the bankers and accountants who worked in the area. By coincidence, there was also a bagel shop across the street from the other Swiss-Russian bank branch located in Baku, Azerbaijan. Zdrok often frequented that establishment as well, although it wasn't as good.

Zdrok went inside Zabat's, bought an onion bagel with cream cheese, a coffee–black–and paid for it with a five-franc bill. He told the server to keep the change. He did this often and had a reputation in the bakery of being the "generous man in the Brioni suit."

Zdrok returned to the bank, entered the lobby, and nodded to the security guard standing just inside the door. A banking customer was already at the teller window; two more were in the private safe-deposit rooms. As one of the many private financial institutions in Zurich offering numbered bank accounts, the Swiss-Russian, as Zdrok referred to it for short, dealt only with wealthy international clients. In a city where money was the lifeblood, the Swiss-Russian was well on its way to becoming a major player in worldwide finance. The beauty of it was that the bank was small and not very well known. The authorities paid little attention to it. Zdrok made sure that all of its legitimate business was aboveboard and clean so that trouble never came knocking. He didn't want too much circumspection into what really went on behind the scenes of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank.

Zdrok unlocked the gate that led to the "employees only" area, glanced back into the lobby to make sure nothing was amiss, then entered the conference room, where his three associates were waiting. Not surprisingly, they had also purchased bagels or muffins with coffee prior to attending the meeting.

Anton Antipov was fifty-two years old. A former colonel with the KGB, he had formed a partnership with Andrei Zdrok shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union. He was tall, imposing, and had a reputation for being a sadist. Zdrok had never witnessed anything supporting this rumor, but he had heard plenty of stories. Antipov had been in charge of one of the gulags outside of Moscow during the eighties, and he had connections throughout the underworld and black markets in Russia and Eastern Europe. As Zdrok's right-hand man, Anton Antipov merely had to invoke his name in some circles to elicit respect–or fear.

Oskar Herzog was fifty-three years old and hailed from the former German Democratic Republic. At the time of his country's reunification, Herzog was one of the most dreaded prosecutors in East Berlin. He put away for life or sentenced to death hundreds of alleged political criminals. Associates called him "The Hatchet" behind his back until one day when he heard the nickname. Instead of becoming angry, he embraced the moniker and encouraged others to perpetuate it. He figured it might help instill apprehension in his enemies.

General Stefan Prokofiev was fifty-five years old and claimed to be related to the famous Russian composer that bore his surname. As a high-ranking officer in the Russian army, Prokofiev spent most of his time in Moscow. He made the trip to Zurich only when Zdrok called a meeting, which wasn't very often. Prokofiev had been one of the top military advisers in charge of weapons development while his country was still under Soviet rule. In 1990 he was promoted to general and became the liaison between the military and the physicists who designed and created Russia's modern armaments. Prokofiev had a reputation of being a communist hard-liner, although he had no qualms at all about making the equivalent of forty million U.S. dollars a year in Zdrok's organization.

Andrei Zdrok, the undisputed leader of the quartet, was fifty-seven years old, had the looks of a former matinee idol in his distinguished retirement years, dressed as if he were the richest man in the world, and had an IQ of 174. Originally from Georgia, Zdrok grew up in a family that ran banks for the Soviet Union. He took over the business when he was in his twenties and quickly learned how to make money for his personal use while serving the tenets of the Communist party. By the time the USSR fell, Andrei Zdrok was one of the ten wealthiest men in Russia. He immigrated to Switzerland, set up the Swiss-Russian, brought in as partners the three other men in the room, and proceeded to double his fortune every year. Zdrok had an insatiable appetite for money, and he always managed to find ways to make it–no matter how many lives might eventually be lost as a result of his business.

These four men were the brains behind the Shop.

In Zurich business meetings always began on time. Zdrok noted that he still had two minutes. He sat at the table, took the bagel out of the bag, and placed it in front of him. The other men watched without saying a word. They had already finished their breakfasts.

Zdrok took a bite, savored the flavors that bombarded his taste buds, and then washed it down with a sip of hot coffee.

At ten o'clock sharp he said, "Good morning."

The others mumbled a greeting in return.

"Gentlemen," Zdrok said, "our first order of business is the shipment that was lost in Iraq. What the hell happened?" He looked at Antipov and raised his eyebrows.

Antipov cleared his throat and said, "The Iraqi police stopped the transport and confiscated everything. Stingers and all. It was extremely lucky on their part, most unfortunate on ours."

"Where did it happen?"

"The town of Arbil. It was on the way to Mosul, where our customer would have then distributed the goods as usual."

"Have we heard from the customer?" Zdrok asked.

Herzog answered, "Yes, and he is very upset. He's asking for a refund."

Zdrok rolled his eyes. "Is he mad? He knew the terms. The shipment is under our protection up to a point, but once it's in the customer's territory and in hishands, then it's his responsibility."

"I told him that," Herzog said. "He isn't happy."

Zdrok looked at General Prokofiev and asked, "What do you plan to do about this?"

Prokofiev shrugged. "An offer for a replacement shipment has been made. We can get the arms together in a few days. Because he and his organization have been good customers, I said he could pay upon receipt. He'll have to pay twice, but at least he'll get the goods."

"Did he take the offer?"

"Yes."

Zdrok looked at Herzog. "Make sure you follow up about the payment as soon as the shipment is in his hands."

Herzog nodded and made a note in a pad he had in front of him. "The customer did say that he's going to attempt to retrieve the shipment. His people know where the police are keeping it."

Zdrok said, "Well, that's their business. If they want to try it, they're certainly welcome to do so. Next item. Operation Sweep."

Antipov cleared his throat again and said, "The information on the man known as Rick Benton proved to be reliable, as you are aware. The intelligence we received may prove fruitful in unmasking more American agents. We have several names. Now all we have to do is match each name with the correct person. It shouldn't take too long. We have operatives working on this as we speak."

Zdrok nodded in approval. "That is good news. The Americans have been hovering much too closely to our organization. We must continue to weed out and eliminate their agents. The one that hit us in Macau damaged our Far East operations a great deal. It will take months, maybe years, to reestablish our business in that region. I especially want thatman."

"Vlad and Yuri are on it," Antipov said. "We'll get him and the others, but keep in mind that it's not easy. These agents are called 'Splinter Cells' because they work alone and undercover. Their own government pretends they don't exist. We've taken out two of them so far. We're nearing confirmation on the identity of another one in Israel, and we're getting close to one in America."

Zdrok cracked his knuckles and nodded. "Vlad and Yuri. They're careful, right? They leave no trace?"

"None. They are as professional as they come. They were my most trusted executioners in the KGB," Antipov replied.

"What did they learn in Belgium?"

"Not only did they eliminate Benton but also a Belgian intelligence officer that Benton was working with. These men knew far too much about what we've been distributing to our number-one customer. Hopefully the material we took from Benton's hotel room will be one-of-a-kind documents. I've taken the precaution to destroy all of it. This should slow down our enemies. In addition, much of our new information about Third Echelon came from Benton's personal computer, which we have also destroyed."

Zdrok waved his hand slightly. "Fine. I leave you in charge of it. Proceed as you see fit. But I want results by the end of the week. If they discover who we are or where we are, it's not going to be pretty. The sooner we get rid of these American bloodhounds, the better off we'll be."

With that, Zdrok took another bite of his bagel and the meeting was over.

12

THElovemaking was as good as it had been in Illinois. As they lay entwined in the narrow twin bed in Eli's small studio apartment, Sarah was convinced more than ever that he was "the one."

She knew she had better get up and phone Rivka. She was supposed to have been back by ten o'clock at the latest. Now it was nearly noon. They had slept in, waking only to make love. How many times had they done it since coming back to his place the night before? Four times? Five? Sarah smiled inwardly and sighed.

"You okay?" Eli asked.

"I sure am," she said, snuggling closer to him.

"I heard you sigh."

"It was a sigh of contentment."

"Oh, I see." He kissed her. "I am glad you're content."

"How about you? Are you content?"

"You better believe it."

She yawned and squeezed his lean torso. "I could stay here forever."

"Me, too," he said. "But I'm getting hungry. How about you?"

"Who needs food when you can have sex?" she said as she placed her hand on his crotch.

"Hey, hey, what are you, a junkie?" He laughed but didn't bother to move her hand.

"With you, yes!"

Eli sat up. "Okay, then I think it's time you go cold turkey for a little while. I'm really hungry. I'm not kidding."

Sarah loved his Israeli accent. There was something about a foreign accent that turned her on. "Shall I make you breakfast?" she asked.

"No, no, I'll make youbreakfast. Or lunch, I think. My God, look at the time."

"Oh, boy, Rivka's gonna be pissed at me. I can't imagine what her parents will think."

Eli waved her comment away and said, "Don't worry. Rivka spent the night with Noel. I bet they slept late, too."

"Still, it's scandalous behavior, don't you think?"

"You're a big girl. You're an adult, right?"

"I'm twenty. I can't drink in America yet."

"Yeah, but you're legallyan adult. That's what counts." He slipped out of bed and walked across the room to the bathroom. She enjoyed watching his backside.

"Anyone ever tell you that you've got a cute tush?" she called out as he closed the door. He didn't answer. Sarah sighed again and finally swung her legs out from under the covers and sat upright. Naked, she went to the kitchen area and looked in the cabinet to see what was there. Typical bachelor apartment, she thought. Nothing but junk food and sugary cereal.

"Eli, do you have coffee?" she called, but the shower started and he couldn't hear her.

She opened another cupboard and found some instant coffee. "Yuck," she said. She shrugged and took it, found a pot to boil water, and tried the tap. The water was brownish. Sarah made a face, turned off the tap, and put the coffee back in the cupboard. She looked around her and realized that Eli's apartment was decidedly a dump. Last night, in the dark, she hadn't noticed. She did remember that the neighborhood where he lived appeared to be a poor one, almost a ghetto. The room smelled moldy. She hadn't noticed the odor earlier because she had been tipsy on wine. Now as she examined the apartment she felt a little repelled.

"Hey, Eli, can I take a shower, too?" she called.

"Sure, come on in!"

She smiled and opened the bathroom door. The little cubicle was steamy from the hot water. At least he hadhot water, she thought.

First things first. She put the toilet seat down, sat, and urinated. Without thinking she flushed the toilet, eliciting a yelp from Eli.

"Sorry!" she said as she opened the shower stall and joined him.

They took turns lathering each other's bodies, pausing every now and then to kiss. He became aroused again and she grasped him firmly with a slippery hand.

"Oh, please, no more," he said. "I'm raw!"

She giggled and said, "I don't think your penis agrees with you."

"My penis neveragrees with me," he said, closing his eyes.

"That's typical for guys, isn't it?" she whispered as she continued playing with him.

Afterward they stepped out of the stall and used the same towel to dry off. "You don't have another towel?" she asked.

"Sorry. I'm poor and destitute."

That prompted her to ask a question she'd been considering for a while. "Eli, do you have a job?"

"A job? Sure, I have a job." He looked in the mirror, took a razor, and started to shave without lather.

"What is it?"

"I work for a delivery service. I'm off this week so I can see you."

"What kind of delivery service?"

"You know, I deliver packages and stuff."

She pictured the car he drove and shuddered. It was a relic from the early nineties. When she first got in the passenger seat, she imagined that she was in a cartoon car that went putt putt pfft popas it creaked along the road.

"You don't do anything with your music?"

"No, that's hard to do."

Come to think of it, she thought, she had never heard him play an instrument. In fact, there was no evidence at all in his apartment that he was interested in music. No sheet music, no CDs of classical music, no busts of Beethoven–nothing.

He glanced at her off the mirror. "What?"

"Nothing," she said. "When will you know about Juilliard?"

He shrugged. "Those things take time." He nicked himself with the razor. "Look what you made me do."

"How did I make you do that?"

"By asking me difficult questions."

"You should use shaving cream."

"I've always done it this way. Go on, you're making me nervous!" He pushed her out of the bathroom and shut the door.

Sarah sighed once more, walked over to her pile of clothes that she had dropped on a chair, and dressed.

ELIended up making the instant coffee himself. They sat at the excuse for a breakfast table as Sarah called Rivka on her cell phone. Her friend was slightly upset with her for not calling earlier. Rivka's parents were not too happy, either. Sarah apologized and said she'd be there in an hour.

"Why don't you just come stay here for the rest of your visit?" Eli suggested.

"Oh, I don't think that'd be a good idea," Sarah replied.

"Why not? Don't you like me?" He winked at her.

She punched him and said, "Of course I do! But, you know, I'm staying with Rivka's parents and all. How would it look?"

He shrugged. "It would look like we're together."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't feel right. Sorry." She took his hand.

"It's okay. Your daddy might not approve, either."

That struck her as an odd thing to say. "I don't think my father would even know. He doesn't keep tabs on me like that. We live in different cities, remember?"

"Oh, right. Your father is the CIA spy."

"He is not."

"What's his name again?"

"Sam Fisher."

"Why not 'Sam Burns.' "

"My mother changed our last names legally after the divorce."

"Right. Sam Fisher. Sam Fisher–Government Agent."

She punched him again. "Stop it. He is not."

Eli kept at it. He hummed the "James Bond Theme" and pointed his finger like a gun. Sarah laughed. "Cut it out," she said.

"Okay. But I still think he's a government agent and not some kind of salesman."

"Why do you say that? Why do you even care?"

"I don't know. I guess I just want to know what my future father-in-law is like."

Sarah blinked. "Your what?"

"You heard me."

"Eli."

He grasped her hand and said, "I know, it's too soon to talk that way. But listen, if you do decide to come live with me in New York, it might happen. I care for you, Sarah. Really."

She looked down. "I know. Me, too."

"Tell me about your mother. What was her name?"

"Regan."

"She worked for the government, too?"

"Yes, I told you that. She was in the NSA."

"National Security Advisory?"

"Agency."

"National Security Agency–whatever."

"She was stationed in Georgia. You know, the former Soviet satellite."

"Uh-huh."

"That's where she met my father. At the time he wasin the CIA."

"Once a spy, always a spy, that's what I always say." She gave him a look. "Sorry. Go on."

"Anyway, they had this torrid love affair and eventually got married. In Germany. That's where I was born, on a military base there."

"Army brat."

She nodded. "I guess so."

"But they didn't stay together?"

"No. It lasted three years. I really don't remember much about my father living with us at the time. I was three when he left. My mom always said that the breakup was mutual–in fact it was her idea for him to go away–but I can't help thinking that he abandoned me. I guess any kid whose father leaves would think that."

"So what happened?"

"Mom took me back to the States. She continued to work in Washington and raised me by herself. I didn't really get to know my dad until I was a teenager. I'd see him every now and then, and he was like this strangerwho'd come see us, claiming to be my father. He'd bring me presents and stuff, but it all seemed very detached. Then there was a period of time I didn't see him at all. Several years. It was between the time I was nine years old and . . . fifteen, I guess."

"Where was he?"

"I don't know. Mom never said. Maybe she told him to stay away, I really don't know. Anyway, it was after mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That's when he showed up again. He came to see her in the hospital and even tried for a reconciliation, but it wasn't to be. After she died, he became my guardian."

"And then you lived with him?"

"Yep. And it was weird. I was in high school and suddenly I lived with a man who was supposed to be my father. It was rough going at first, but I guess it turned out all right. We became friends, especially after I graduated and went to college." She shrugged and smiled. "Now I think he's a great guy."

"Even though he's so mysterious." Eli exaggerated the word with a whisper.

"Oh stop."

"Hey, I'm going to run downstairs and get a couple of sandwiches. How does that sound?"

"Okay."

"Stay here and I'll be back in a few minutes. You want meat, right?"

She laughed. "Whatever. I don't care."

"Coming right up."

He got up from the table and left the apartment, leaving Sarah shaking her head and wondering how she got involved with such an interesting man.

Downstairs, Eli stood outside the deli below his apartment, pulled out his cell phone, and made a quick call.

"Everything checks out with Sam Fisher," he said. "He was with the CIA in the nineteen-eighties and he married a woman named Regan Burns. She died of cancer and they had one daughter. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and supposedly works as a 'salesman.' "

Eli listened to the voice on the other end and then said, "Right. Definitely. It's just as you suspected. It's him–he's the one."

13

I have to enter Iran illegally. Iraq wasn't a problem because of the U.S. presence there. Iran, however, is a different story. Of course, an ordinary tourist or official governmental representative could simply apply for a visa and enter the country. Despite the prevalent notion in America that Iran is a hostile and dangerous place, it is actually a relatively warm and friendly place. I have been to Iran on numerous occasions, mostly to Tehran, and I've always found the people to be helpful and welcoming. Things have relaxed in the country since the heyday of the Islamic Revolution. There was a time when the komite, the religious police, were comparable to the Gestapo. Not anymore–today they are hardly visible on the streets. Nevertheless, you have to watch yourself. You must abide by the laws, especially the religious ones, stay away from rallies and demonstrations, and avoid talking about politics.