Ahmadi stopped speaking, and his ever-present smile faltered a bit as he looked at the computer monitor with mild confusion. He turned to the immigration officer and said something in Farsi.
The uniformed officer replied in Farsi, tapped a few more keys on his keyboard; his own expression morphed to one of puzzlement.
The men spoke back and forth softly, but Brooks didn’t understand Farsi, so he just checked his watch with a smile. He glanced back to his minder after a few more seconds of conversation, and he thought he detected some annoyance in Faraj Ahmadi’s expression now.
The Canadian businessman placed his briefcase on the floor. Clearly this was going to take a moment. “There a problem, Faraj?”
The wide smile returned instantly. “No, no. It’s nothing.” Faraj spoke again to the seated immigration officer, squeezed the man on the shoulder playfully, and made some sort of a joke. Both men smiled, but Brooks noticed the immigration officer was typing in his computer faster now, cocking his head, still looking at something on the screen.
Fifteen times through immigration here, and Brooks had never seen this before.
After another exchange between the two Iranians, the Canadian said, “What is it, Faraj? Did my ex-wife put out an all-points bulletin on me?”
Faraj scratched his head. “Just a problem with the fingerprint reader, I think. Would you mind trying again?”
Ron Brooks blew on his thumb dramatically and placed it back on the reader. “Tell me who sells you your scanners, and I’ll get you a better model from abroad, and undercut what you’re paying now.”
Faraj smiled, but his eyes remained locked on the computer monitor.
The immigration officer wasn’t laughing at all. His hand slipped under his desk, and Ahmadi snapped angrily at him. The reply came in an apologetic tone, but even though Ron couldn’t understand the language, he realized the seated officer had hit some sort of a button. Three more customs officers, one out of uniform and wearing a badge on the lapel of his suit, walked over immediately and looked at the monitor.
Brooks made a joke. “I knew I should have claimed that pocketful of pistachios I took out of Iran when I was here in May.”
Faraj wore no smile now, and he wasn’t even listening to the Canadian. Instead, the senior customs officer spoke calmly and professionally to the government minder, and Faraj responded in Farsi with more fervor than Brooks had ever seen from the normally calm and happy man.
The exchange ended with Faraj Ahmadi turning to Brooks. “I beg your pardon, Ron. There is some sort of a system issue with our computer today. Honestly this has never happened before. We will get everything in order, but your visa cannot be processed until we do. Will you come with me, please, to a waiting room? We can have some coffee while they sort everything out.”
Ron Brooks heaved his shoulders a bit and gave a little smile. “Sure, Faraj. Whatever.”
“I do apologize.”
“Don’t stress about it, my friend. You should see what I have to put up with when I visit the United States. Bunch of assholes.”
This didn’t look like a waiting room to Ron Brooks. He’d been led into a room no more than fifteen by fifteen feet, the windowless space adorned with just a simple table with three chairs around it, and on the wall an unframed poster of the Imam Khomeini airport and another of the current president of the nation.
A large mirror ran across one wall, and a camera was pointed down at the table from a high corner.
He knew what this was. It was a reconciliation room, a place where smugglers were taken to have their bags checked over carefully.
Three armed police officers in tactical gear and with automatic rifles across their chests stood in the doorway. They looked at Brooks with some curiosity, but they didn’t seem nervous or agitated. When Brooks turned to Faraj and pointed out the presence of the three men, the chaperone went pale with embarrassment. “It’s just the damn rules. They will all owe us a big apology in moments, Ron. In the meantime I will bring you a coffee. Just the way you like it. One sugar only.”
Brooks smiled at his friend, but his smile was getting harder to muster. “Look, I know this isn’t your fault, but I’m really tired, really hungry, and I’m not too crazy about this little reception committee watching over me like I’ve done something wrong. Perhaps you can call General Rastani and he can put some pressure on these guys. He is the one that insisted I come to Tehran this week for a meeting. He’ll be interested to know about what’s going on here.”
On the Iranian’s face came a glimmer of hope. “Yes, of course! I will do this right now. Coffee first, then I will call—”
“I had coffee on the plane. How about we just call the general’s office?”
Faraj bowed. “Certainly. We will be on our way in no time.”
Two hours and twenty minutes after his chaperone raced out of the small reconciliation room with a promise to resolve the matter and return in short order, Ron Brooks sat alone at the table. He’d not seen a hint of Faraj, nor a hint of any coffee, and even though the door to the hallway was not locked, the three armed guards outside had turned to eight armed guards, and every time Ron opened the door and asked for someone who spoke English, a stern young man in tactical gear with a gun on his chest merely waved him back inside the room and shut the door in his face.
Ron had stood, he had paced, and now he sat, looking at his watch. Furious, he even looked up at the camera high in the corner and pointed down to his crotch, making plain the fact he had to take a leak.
Seconds after doing this he was about to put his head down on the table when the door opened and three men in black suits entered. None of the men wore smiles, and they offered no greetings or introductions.
One by one, Brooks returned their steely gaze. He’d had enough of this, and he did not mask his irritation. “Where is Ahmadi? I need my translator.”
The oldest of the three men sat down; he wore a gray beard and a suit with a collarless shirt. Brooks knew neckties were considered Western and liberal here in conservative Iran, and there were regulations prohibiting them, although these rules were flouted by many.
But not by this guy or his colleagues.
The man with the gray beard said, “You will not need a translator. We all speak English.”
“Good. So that means you will be able to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Certainly, I can do this. There is a serious problem with your documentation.”
Brooks shook his head now. “No, buddy, there’s not. I’m not some dopey tourist. It’s not my first trip here.”
“It’s your sixteenth, in fact,” Gray Beard said, momentarily confusing Brooks.
“Yeah… that’s right. And it’s the same damn documentation I’ve used the last fifteen times I’ve visited Iran without a single problem.”
Gray Beard said, “Yes, I agree. But in contrast to this visit, sir, the last fifteen times, we were unaware that there were errors on several lines on your passport.”
Brooks recoiled at the accusation. “Errors on which lines?”
Gray Beard leaned forward a little. “To begin… the line with your name on it.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
Gray Beard turned his hands over, held them up apologetically. “Your name is not Ron Brooks.”
“The hell it’s not! You contact General Hossein Rastani and ask for—”
“Your name” — Gray Beard spoke right over the loud Westerner — “is Stuart Raymond Collier.”
Brooks cocked his head. “Who? Pal, I can promise you… I’ve never heard that name in my life.”