Tomy and the Planet of Lies by Erich von Däniken Page B

pumping into the Range Rover. Finally, I found a wall, topped with barbed wire with two large concrete buildings behind it. I drove along the wall until I finally saw Mahmut’s truck. As I drove by him towards the camp gates, I suddenly asked myself whether we could trust this camp commandant. What would happen if he changed his mind, confiscated our expensive automobile, stole the money, and even had us arrested?
    The barrier rose, allowing us access to the site. Left and right of us half-naked soldiers were crouched in the shade of the crippled trees. Directly in front of the main entrance, there was a deck chair where a tanned man in a bathing suit was sitting. In front of him, on the ground, lay an olive green officer’s hat and a tin can, which contained the remains of a stinking cigar. His bearded face and black hair reminded me of a young Fidel Castro. The edges of all his fingernails were black. We got out of the car, Mahmud called out something, and “Fidel” stood up. With a look of recognition, he wandered around the Range Rover. All of the doors were open; “Fidel” looked at the aluminum cases containing our metal detectors. I had already told Tomy what was in these cases and he now explained this to “Fidel.” He even went into detail, such as how they could detect metal objects at up to three meters deep and in the process distinguish between precious and non-precious metals. “Fidel” nodded appreciatively, his greed seemed to grow.
    I recalled the Indian-Pakistani border crossing, which we had crossed three weeks previously. The customs officers on both sides were convinced that every technical appliance was some sort of espionage device. The Indian guard at the Wagah post had pointed with his wooden stick at the aluminum cases and demanded that we open them. It took a lot of talking and gesticulation to persuade him that the metal detector was a broken radio. I turned the volume on the device up to full and—because the car was full to the brim with tools, cans and other metal—the loudspeaker provided a series of squeaking, crackling and whistling sounds which made a pretty convincing old radio. Our “Fidel” here didn’t look like the kind who would fall for that kind of trick. He seemed well educated and lot craftier.
    We entered a cool room as big as a small gym, which had the Iranian flag hanging from the ceiling, green, white, and red stripes with a red crest in the middle. In one corner of the room stood a large, antique desk; next to it, on a wooden bookshelf, lay yellowing books, which probably hadn’t been looked at in years. On a tattered leather chair lay a pile of illustrated magazines with odd corners folded over to mark pages and covered in brown cigarette burns. “Fidel” pulled on a shirt, squeezed into the second leather chair, and indicated a wooden bench on the opposite side of the room where we were to sit.
    The cold stone floor made the place seem incredibly clean, for some reason, in contrast to the tired old fans, which whirred and clattered on the ceiling. “Fidel” spoke to someone on the telephone and said, to Tomy of course, that the commandant was currently busy, and then he lit up a stinking cigar and set himself to wait. I did the same with a cigarette.
    â€œI don’t like this,” said Marc dryly. “This barracks is like a den of thieves.” Looking through the windows, we could see the soldiers outside wandering around the Range Rover, peering through the windows to see what was inside. I stood up and went outside: “Fidel” seemed unconcerned. I sat myself down on the steps outside. The soldiers grinned at me but made no move to touch the car. Marc appeared next to me and squatted down beside me and asked what I thought of all this.
    â€œLet’s just wait,” I said. “The commandant is supposedly an educated man from a good family. And don’t forget, we have