Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson

  The Marc Portman Thrillers

  THE WATCHMAN *

  The Harry Tate Thrillers

  RED STATION *

  TRACERS *

  DECEPTION *

  RETRIBUTION *

  EXECUTION *

  The Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer Series

  NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED

  NO HELP FOR THE DYING

  NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD

  NO TEARS FOR THE LOST

  NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL

  * available from Severn House

  CLOSE QUARTERS

  A Marc Portman Thriller

  Adrian Magson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Adrian Magson.

  The right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Magson, Adrian author.

  Close quarters

  1. Ukraine–Foreign relations–Russia (Federation)–

  Fiction. 2. Russia (Federation)–Foreign relations–

  Ukraine–Fiction. 3. Central Illustration Agency–

  Fiction. 4. Spy stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8504-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-606-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-657-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  With unfailing love and gratitude, as always, to Ann, who puts up with my absences, even when I’m there.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book very nearly didn’t happen. I was halfway through completion of the manuscript when the news broke about the shooting down over eastern Ukraine of Malaysian Airlines Flight MH17 en route from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur on July 17, 2014.

  I tend to use a flavour of current events where I can, and had chosen the Ukraine in 2013 when I began writing because it offered a plausible backdrop on which to hang the story. What I hadn’t reckoned on was this terrible tragedy taking place in the same location, and for several days I felt reluctant to continue with it.

  However, the timeline of Close Quarters was set several months earlier than July, so in the end I decided to continue with the project, since there would be no reference to it in the book, nor would I have had to deliberately ignore it, which would have been unjust for the 298 victims.

  At the time of writing, the perpetrators of this act remain unproven.

  ONE

  The man I knew as Arash Bagheri was walking into a trap. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  It’s hard watching that kind of thing happen while knowing you’ve got to get the man out. It’s three parts telling yourself you should have seen it coming and one part knowing it’s your job to do something and it has to be right. Recriminations can come later.

  Bagheri was approaching a street named Kandhar, not far from Tehran’s central fruit and vegetable bazaar in the south of the city. A local CIA asset, he was there to conduct an exchange meeting with a man named Farshad Kasimi, an old friend who worked as a laboratory technician for the nearby Iranian Centre for Fuel and Technology Research Laboratories. Or, as the site is more accurately known among those who watch these things, the workshop where they build deadly weapons with which to kill people they don’t like.

  I had no idea what precisely Bagheri was here to exchange with his friend, only that it had to involve money going in and information or technology coming out. That’s usually the way of these operations. My role was to make sure he came away without getting burned.

  And right now that was beginning to look unlikely.

  I’d scouted the area the previous evening, which was close by the ring road known as the Azadegan Expressway, noting the street layout, the exits and escape routes, and I’d left a vehicle parked in the shadow of a small park down the block just in case. Forward planning is a major element of getting this stuff right and staying out of trouble.

  I hadn’t seen anything about the surroundings to ring alarm bells, unless you call being stuck in a traffic jam on the expressway alongside a parked fuel tanker while the driver had a smoke and a chat with a friend, as normal. But what I had seen of Farshad Kasimi the technician, who I’d followed for a while, told me he wasn
’t the full deal. If you’re going to put your faith in someone while spying for a foreign country, notably the USA, you should choose a man who isn’t loud and gregarious and seems to like spending money freely. For a lowly technician in a state-run industry, that felt all wrong to me.

  With these reservations in mind, I’d got here nearly an hour ago and found a position atop a deserted three-storey warehouse. The rooftop gave me a view of the streets near the bazaar and of the expressway running past in an east–west direction, and at least three exits if I needed them.

  It was seven a.m. and the morning was heating up rapidly. I already had a coating of motor fumes, smoke and dust tasting gritty on my tongue, which sipping water from a plastic bottle did nothing to shake. And the tarpaulin I’d rigged up in the shadow of an air-conditioning unit wasn’t doing much to keep the heat or the flies off me. But I knew I wouldn’t have long to wait before we could be on our way out of here; the moment I saw Bagheri appear and do his thing, I’d be ready to pick him up and scoot.

  The traffic in the area was a mix of private cars, buses, cabs and pickup trucks of every kind, all being buzzed by motorbikes like flies around rotten fruit. Everybody seemed eager to get their business over and done with as soon as possible before the heat of the day really set in, which meant a lot of pushing and shoving and blowing of horns.

  Impatient people, the Iranians.

  As I checked Kandhar Street through binoculars, I saw a familiar figure appear on the next block. From the photo I’d been shown I knew it was Bagheri. He was slim and of medium height, with receding hair down the middle and a heavy moustache. He was walking slowly and carrying a bag of fruit, and looked relaxed. He was even chewing on an apple to add a touch of casual colour, as he’d been trained to do.

  Not standing out; that was essential for this business, but easier said than done when your life is on the line and you feel – know – that you’re being watched because you’re in a society where everybody is a suspect, even the innocent.

  I ran another check of the streets around Kandhar, but there was no sign of Kasimi. He was either suffering the pains of a hangover or he’d been delayed by traffic, which is easy enough in a frenetic, crowded city like Tehran, where time is a fluid concept and apologies are always effusive and well-meant.

  Then I discovered I was wrong and the day was about to get blown apart.

  A black sedan had appeared on the expressway. It was surrounded by other vehicles, yet somehow stood out within its own space, as if in a bubble. I knew instinctively why: it was too big, too new and too unlike anything a private citizen here would want to drive. Black sedans absorb heat but they also give off bad historic vibes. It had to be a car from the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, known as MOIS, the successor to the dreaded SAVAK of the old regime, some said with many of the same senior personnel in place with the same nasty habits.

  I thought it might be on its way elsewhere at first, that being here in this section of the city was just a lousy coincidence of timing and circumstance. But when it signalled and slipped on to the nearby exit ramp which led to the area around the bazaar, I felt hope take wings and fly.

  I focussed on the car, which was full of men. Not unusual for ministry heavies; they like to travel in packs. But the screw in the coffin, as it disappeared from sight behind a scrum of traffic, was seeing a familiar face staring out of the rear window, which had been dropped to let in some air. It was Farshad Kasimi, his hair and shirt collar moving in the breeze. He was laughing at something that had been said by the man next to him, before taking a luxurious drag of a cigarette and tossing the end out of the window.

  I ducked out from under my cover and crossed the flat roof for a better view, dodging the array of television aerials and satellite dishes, and bending low before I got to the parapet. For a second I thought I’d been wrong. No sedan in sight. Then it appeared from behind some buildings and began to weave through the streets, jinking occasionally left then right, but from up on my perch, ultimately heading in one direction.

  It was in no hurry – there was still a good fifteen minutes before Bagheri’s scheduled meeting – but from up here I could see it was somehow too focussed on a single destination, like watching a shark closing in on its kill.

  I dialled Bagheri’s number. He had to get out of there now. He’d been blown by his supposed friend and he was now a target. It rang several times. No answer. Damn. Hell of a time to have it stuck at the bottom of his shopping bag. I stood up and ran downstairs, surprising a building superintendent, an old man in a long shift who popped his head out from a room and shouted. It was too late to get the car and intercept Bagheri before the sedan reached him, but I had one chance of getting him out: I knew precisely where the sedan would go once they’d picked him up.

  MOIS has a number of facilities in regular use around Tehran, mostly because of the logistics of operating in such a crowded city, where traffic in the narrow streets is a constant hazard. The nearest base to this quarter was less than a mile away, and that was where I headed once I hit the street.

  The interior of the car, an old Fiat, was already like a pizza oven. I dropped the windows and switched on the fan, but it moved the air with the sluggish speed of stirring toffee. I drove as fast as I dared, hand on the horn, the little car skidding neatly between delivery trucks, cars and the ever-present motorcycles, some loaded with unidentifiable mountains of baggage. Three minutes later I was at the end of a boulevard in a mostly quiet commercial quarter where MOIS has its local security compound. It has a high wall topped by wire, and impressive double gates with a permanent armed guard, and it looked exactly what it was: the last place any sane person would want to be taken.

  I left the car two hundred yards away close to a pedestrian crossing and figured I had maybe three minutes before the sedan appeared. Three minutes in which to arrange an accident.

  Three minutes before I poked a hornets’ nest with whatever stick I could find.

  I checked out the buildings nearby. Two half-completed but deserted warehouse units stood on one side of the road, the bare walls un-rendered and grey, now covered with graffiti; and a row of empty stores on the other, gutted shells blackened by fire and long abandoned by their owners. Rubbish from the buildings had been piled nearby and was spilling out across the sidewalk; blocks of broken concrete, scaffold poles, lengths of burned timber and the ruined detritus from a dress shop.

  It was going to have to be a MacGyver moment.

  First, though, I leaned over and peeled back the carpet on the passenger side and lifted a section of the flooring. It revealed a box recess welded to the underneath of the car. Inside was a cloth-covered bundle. I removed the cloth and was left holding a 9mm Browning High Power and a fat tube suppressor, or silencer. The gun showed signs of being well-used, but the suppressor was new. Both looked ready to go.

  It was hardly anybody’s idea of an arsenal but it would have to do.

  TWO

  Arash Bagheri had the taste of blood on his lip and a swelling on his cheek where he’d been hit before being bundled into the black sedan. It was just one of many bruises he’d sustained and he knew there were many more to come.

  He also knew that he would never see freedom again.

  He had known within a split second of seeing the car waiting at the far end of Kandhar Street that he had made a grave error; that somehow he’d been betrayed. The vehicle was shiny black with tinted windows, and hung low on its suspension, a sure-fire sign of reinforced bodywork and bulletproof glass. Only one agency used such cars and he didn’t even like to think of its name for fear he might utter it aloud. Secret police were the same no matter what they called themselves, and this lot were as feared as their cars were sinister looking, and with good reason.

  He had stopped walking, his legs turning to liquid. The car was stationary, a large black bug. Maybe he was wrong and they had come here for somebody else. But who? The street was empty. Then he saw a puff of exhaust s
moke and the car began rolling along the street towards him, a flash of sunshine bouncing off the windshield as if to greet him. A touch of irony, he decided, on a bad day.

  He turned to run back the way he had come, to lose himself in the maze of narrow streets where people would provide the best cover and where he could duck into a doorway, God willing. But he realized his legs wouldn’t carry him far enough or fast enough; there was no escape and nowhere he could go that would be safe.

  He made a noise deep in his chest and wondered about his friend, Farshad, the man he had come to meet. Farshad had suggested they meet today at this very place, telling Arash that he had vital information to give him of new weapons being created in the ‘laboratory’, including small explosive devices that could be concealed in very restricted spaces such as hand luggage. Arash had expressed doubts about the location, preferring somewhere else. But Farshad had been insistent. He was certain he was being watched, he said, by security officers in the government laboratory where he worked, and was expecting to be questioned any day now. Somebody, he feared, must have noticed his interest in weapons development and had reported him.

  Keen to secure the information, Arash had convinced himself that he would be safe among the crush of people and traders and traffic that clustered around the bazaar in great numbers. And in exchange for the information there would be money waiting that would be Farshad’s safeguard to a better life.