The Corporal's Wife (2013) by Gerald Seymour Read Free Book Online Page A

for those prominent in the service of the state. Then there was his wife’s health and . . . He had heard brave predictions of how an enemy could be stalled by the defences of the missile and gun battery and how an enemy’s fleet could be countered by the skilful use of acoustic or magnetic mines. Brave predictions. He had seen the American war machine. The brigadier had been in Iraq to organise the training of the foot-soldiers who would lay the explosive-force projectiles that could blow out the interior of an Abrams main battle tank. He had been on the ground in the rocky outcrops and steep-sided valleys of south Lebanon, advising Hezbollah field commanders when the Zionists had come with their armour, artillery and airstrikes. He understood modern warfare, so he was burdened with responsibilities.
    Now a new one was loaded onto him.
    One of his talents was to make those who met him feel he had their attention, that they alone – if their work was satisfactory – were at the top of his list of priorities. If Iran was attacked by the Great Satan and the Zionists, there would be retaliation abroad against American assets, their allies and Israel. He carried a crushing workload. A lesser man might have crumpled under it.
    He looked into the eyes of each man who spoke to him, sought out weakness, indecision, exaggeration. His beard was neatly trimmed, not the cut of a poseur but of a tidy-minded man, and his silver hair was short. His clothing might have come from any good tailor in a bazaar, and was not beyond the financial reach of those around him. They would have regarded him as a credit to the principles of the revolution. His voice was quiet but direct, and men hunched forward to hear him better. He had control. None would have known that his driver collected statements from a bank in Dubai, and that associates organised the importation, without Customs hindrance, of valued electronic equipment.
    Later he would go to Bandar Abbas. He would tour more facilities with his staff of liaison officers, then take the train to Tehran: fifteen hundred kilometres, nineteen hours, and a chance to brainstorm with them. The laptops would be battered as the papers were written. On arrival the next day in the capital, he would be met by his driver and his workload would again be stacked in front of him.
    His opinion: it would go hard for them if the United States attacked – and the great tanker, maybe ferrying a hundred thousand tons of crude, slipped from sight.
    He showed no sign of it, but would be glad to return to familiar ground, and have his driver’s familiar face close to him. A good man, reliable.
     
    Her home should have been better furnished. Her husband was in the Qods, a lowly corporal, but he earned nearly four hundred American dollars a month. Farideh, on the reception desk of an insurance company, was paid two hundred. No family on their staircase had such a large combined income, yet they were on the edge of poverty and struggled.
    As did so many.
    She knew of the poverty on the different floors. Her staircase, going up four flights, covered the front doors of fifteen other apartments. No one ever complained in her hearing. She was from the Qods and was not trusted. Her neighbours smiled thinly at her and hurried past. She endured the loneliness because of the room above the garage and the adoration of the aged mechanics.
    She had finished dressing and would be warm against the cold – she had seen from the window that snow was in the air. She went through the apartment, clearing and wiping surfaces – she had no affection for her husband but she had standards. Her family were respectable, God-fearing, supported the revolution, and they, too, suffered a new poverty: the linen shop on the north edge of the bazaar had fewer customers, and the ones who came bought cheaper cloth. She and her husband had less cash because Mehrak paid his brother’s bills. The brother had been a computer engineer but had been