Tomy and the Planet of Lies by Erich von Däniken

Turkish border. We weren’t followed. At the Iranian-Turkish border crossing at Barzangan there was a queue of cars and trucks at least a kilometer long. A German truck driver walking around without a shirt on and clutching a can of warm Coke cursed that this border crossing always added fifteen hours to his journey. Not exactly thrilled by this information, I pulled the car around the endless column and drove up the zigzagged road to the customs house. A uniformed man waved us curtly over. Resolutely I waved our red Swiss passports around as if they were diplomatic passports. The uniformed man escorted me to a desk where an older gentleman was sitting, his tanned, wrinkled forehead reminding me of a barbecue. He flicked through our documents until he reached Tomy’s exit visa. His expression relaxed and became friendlier, reverent even. He quickly stamped our passports and wished us a good journey. On the Turkish side of the barrier, we finally felt free…

Chapter 3

Relief
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    The wastepaper basket in my suite in the Suvretta House in St. Moritz was overflowing with scraps of paper, notes, and computer printouts. I had been writing, scribbling notes, calling people on the phone and typing for four afternoons and three nights solid. I had called Marc and invited him to come here and take a short break in this luxury hotel. Then we wouldn’t have to spend so much time on the phone. Marc is one those mountain lads who was put out on the ski slope when he was still in diapers. Now he could ski like a professional––and St. Moritz with its fantastic slopes was a big temptation for him. He accepted my invitation and I was expecting him to arrive that evening.
    When I looked out of the window on the left in my room, I could see, behind the snow-laden fir trees, the villa, which once belonged to the Shah of Iran. It was built especially for him and every year he would bring his family to St. Moritz for a holiday. Mario, the barkeeper, told me that the Shah had always come with an enormous entourage of officers, bodyguards, cooks, chambermaids and everything else that you could imagine. The officers had often gotten drunk in the bar, but the Shah himself had never come. “He was in the hotel—often—but never in my bar!” he protested.
    And then the religious fanatics had driven him out of the country, a sad chapter in Iranian history, and the western world had closed its doors on the sick Shah—out of fear of the mullahs. Not even the mighty U.S.A. had taken him in. Cowardly western world, I thought. The politicians constantly rattle on about “humanitarian grounds,” but when it comes to the Shah of Iran—who, God knows, was far from being a saint but nevertheless did much for his country—they let him die wretchedly in exile in Egypt.
    Many months ago, while waiting behind the Turkish border barrier, I had asked myself the same question that I asked myself later many times. Although I knew the answer, it came back to me now as I sat in my pleasant suite in St. Moritz. Why had we worked for the Iranian secret service? And why had they just let us leave, with so little resistance? By the way—and I suppose this partially answers my questions—since our visit to Iran there hasn’t been a single terror attack throughout the whole of Iran.
    Good work, Tomy!
    In reality, the Iranian secret service had never let us out of their sight. But we didn’t realize that until it was too late. And despite despising the secret service and their methods, I hated murderers who blew up women and children even more. I hate those liars, who wrap themselves up in the cloak of their religion, who indoctrinate young children that they will be martyrs and will sit at Allah’s right hand, that they are holy warriors and their every need will be tended to in paradise—as if Allah needed their help. Finally, and that was another argument in favor of our action, Tomy