My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

The man who filled the shoes he had stepped out of to gain his more senior level. The new Director of Intelligence was Frank Moses. Among his responsibilities was intelligence analysis on key foreign issues.

  "What do you have, Frank?" DD Monroe asked.

  "We have confirmation that our man boarded the ship in the port of Genoa, Italy," replied DI Moses.

  "And the ship was definitely on its way to Iran?"

  "Yes. It was the only ship we knew at the time that would be in Italy. Italy obviously still trades with Iran, Jim."

  "Yes, yes. I know all that. Listen, what happened to our asset? Is he to be trusted?"

  "Hundred percent," replied DI Moses.

  "What was the route of the cargo ship?"

  "It left the United Kingdom and travelled via Gibralta. Eight days later, it arrived in Italy. After a day in the dock of Genoa, it was bound for the Iranian port of Bandar Abbas where it arrived seventeen days later," continued Moses.

  "What was the last intel from the asset?"

  "Two same-day communications from the asset. First com gave intel stating a crate of AK47s had been sold dockside to a Nigerian male prior to leaving Great Britain. Second was in Badar Abbas saying there was a change of plan and there was a friendly hostage situation."

  "Meaning?"

  "There's been no further communication since."

  "In twenty-eight days?"

  "Yes," answered Moses.

  "How reliable is he?"

  "The asset? Very."

  "Could he be dead?" asked Monroe.

  "Possible, but not likely. He's a highly skilled operative. Probably just gone dark."

  "Twenty-eight days is a long time to remain dark, Frank. What about this friendly hostage situation? Could he mean he, the asset, is being held hostage?" quizzed Monroe.

  "I'll get word from other agents who confirmed sightings of the asset when he arrived at Bandar," replied Moses.

  "I wanna know what happened the moment he left that port, Frank. I wanna know who that hostage is because it cannot overshadow the mission."

  At the port of Bandar Abbas in Iran, the container ship from Tilbury had docked and was being unloaded. The sun was scorching down and hundreds of people were milling about the place.

  The boot of a gleaming black Mercedes S Class slammed shut and an Iranian man extended his hand to another.

  "Siamak?" said the Iranian man who held his hand out for another to shake.

  "Yes. I am Siamak," replied a tall man with jet-black hair. He was a handsome Iranian man, with deep-set eyes and a kind face. On that day, he wore fashionably ripped blue jeans, brown cowboy boots and a green Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt.

  "Watch the car. I will be two minutes, OK?" said the first Iranian, who rounded the vehicle and became lost amongst a crowd.

  Siamak glanced back at the cargo ship and the boot of the Mercedes. He exhaled, discreetly pulled out a cell phone and began to sing under his breath the Frank Sinatra song 'I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plan'. He sang softly, giving a perfect Sinatra impression. He slyly switched his phone off and slid it into his pocket.

  A tech guy brought up a visual on a large, central screen within an operations room. The Director of Intelligence, Frank Moses, loosened his neck tie, folded his arms and formed a pained, tired expression as he looked at the surveillance photograph of an Iranian man in his early thirties.

  "Remind me," said Moses to the analyst tech.

  "Hamid Golzar, Iranian. A former pro-Ahmadinejad rebel, who's started out on his own. He has access to pretty much everything: guns, chemicals, hostages, kitchen sink, you know. He's a radical. He has strong links with Libya and Syria, not to mention Al-Qaeda and Hamas, but also the new ones the world will be hearing about in a few years: Boko Harem and ISIS. Our friends at MI-5 confirm that their missing national could have been taken aboard the cargo vessel that was bound for Italy, sir."

  "This would match the intel from the asset," Moses responded.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And he's since coded in?"

  "Yes. Emmett Smith briefed us on what occurred when he arrived in Iran," reported the analyst.

  "I'm listening," said Moses.

  Rebecca, Violet and Edward were having dinner in their home. Chicken casserole with mashed potato. The only one who managed to eat entire mouthfuls, and not just simply spread food around the plate, was Edward.

  "I don't understand why we're not allowed to put the story out to the press. It doesn't make sense," protested Rebecca, sniffing.

  "I'm waiting to hear why, Becky," said Edward in a comforting tone, however unsure and baffled he was.

  "Even the local newspaper said they'd help, but now they're saying they can't. It's been over a month! Why!" Rebecca began to cry.

  "The Home Secretary has issued a D Notice," stated Edward.

  A D Notice was short for Defence Notice. The system was set up in 1912 and was a voluntary suppression of particular categories of information on the advice of the government. D Notices were sent out to national and provincial newspaper editors, as well as those behind radio and TV companies, advising them not to report on a certain subject. The rationale behind the censorship was that an adverse group could unearth intelligence secrets or assets sensitive to national security. The five Defence Advisory Notices in the United Kingdom, were:

  DA-Notice 01: Military Operations, Plans and Capabilities.

  DA-Notice 02: Nuclear and Non-Nuclear Weapons and Equipment.

  DA-Notice 03: Ciphers and Secure Communications.

  DA-Notice 04: Sensitive Installations and Home Addresses.

  DA-Notice 05: United Kingdom Security and Intelligence Special Services.

  One of the listed D Notices, for reasons as yet unknown to Edward, was connected to his son. All he knew was that he was not allowed to inform Michael's employers that he was missing. Not allowed to discuss with any form of the media, be it print, telecommunication, online or social. Not allowed to pursue any line of investigation himself. It was like a super-injunction that prevented him from gaining any new information on the whereabouts of his son, or from informing those close to him who cared for Michael and simply called him a friend. Of course Edward had told Michael's boss, Helen. She had to know. She adored him as a colleague and as a friend, which Edward knew well.

  The conversation with Helen was a difficult one for both her and Edward. She wanted so much to tell the rest of her team, but knew details would leak out. She was extremely angry with Patricia, who was completely unaware of the traumatic situation that she was partly to blame for. Helen was kept up-to-date by Edward.

  Edward emailed her regularly, even his findings when he received laboratory results from a lab in Oxford to whom he had sent the chewing gum and blood samples for them to extract and test for DNA, clarifying that it was a one hundred percent match to Michael.

  Edward's Nokia mobile phone rang and made everyone at the table jolt when its familiar tone sounded and the plastic casing vibrated on the wooden dining table. He took the call and frowned when he heard that it was Mr Ahmed, the foster parent of Afghan pupil Abdul Rah-Maan.

  "Hello, sir. I hope I am not disturbing you."

  "No. Not at all, Mr Ahmed."

  "First I will inquire on whether you have any news of your son."

  "No. Nothing yet."

  "For that I am sorry. My family continue to pray for you and the safety of your son, Michael," Mr Ahmed replied.

  "Thank you. That's very kind," said Edward.

  "I do, however, bring more sad news, sir. I telephone to inform you that Abdul was found dead this afternoon. He accidentally severed an artery in his thigh while he was cutting himself. Because of his self-harming."

  "That's terrible news. I'm sorry for the person who discovered him. It couldn't have been a pleasant sight," replied Edward.

  "It was my wife. Abdul had not had any food with us and so she went to see him in his room. There was a lot of blood."

  "I'm sure there was. I hope you
r wife is OK."

  "A little distressed, but we are not really surprised, sir. Abdul naturally blamed himself for what has happened to your son and did not gain the answers he wanted about him from his school. Because they think your son is unwell, I suppose."

  "Yes, that's correct. They're not allowed to know."

  "I understand. Well, I am just calling to tell you this and I am here if you need to speak with me or if I am required by any authorities."

  "Thank you," replied Edward, quietly. He closed his eyes, saddened by what he heard. He released a deep sigh.

  Rebecca jolted again for as soon as Edward put the phone on the table, it rang and vibrated again. Edward instantly took the call.

  "Carolyn? What's new?" Edward asked, speaking in a different tone, with his wife and Rebecca turning keenly to listen.

  "I can't disclose too much just now, but the US agencies believe they have information which could lead to Michael's whereabouts," Carolyn, Edward's MI-5 contact and family friend, informed him.

  "The US? Why would they know anything?" Edward asked, curiously.

  "The US?" Violet whispered.

  "America? Is Mike in America?" Rebecca frowned.

  "We need you and Rebecca to come to us," said Carolyn.

  "OK. When?"

  "As soon as possible. When is it convenient?"

  "We can get to you within the hour," Edward said.

  "OK. I'll let security know. See you then."

  Edward hung up the phone and told Violet and Rebecca what Carolyn had said.

  A confused and slightly more hopeful, yet still very anxious Rebecca nodded her head. She wiped her cheek with a white cotton napkin.

  "You like the Rat Pack?" said the Iranian man, as he drove the Mercedes out of the Iranian port. He glanced into the rear view mirror at Siamak.

  "What was that?" replied Siamak, in Persian Farsi.

  "Frank Sinatra. I heard you singing it," said the Iranian in English, with an American twang. "When we stop, come sit up front with me." "Your English is good." Siamak eyed the surroundings as the car drove through the streets.

  "American teachers! I also spent two years in London. The London School of Economics. Not bad, huh? I heard Gadaffi's son was also there, but not when I went," noted the man, smiling. He held up a dirty, creased green school exercise book. "In here is a copy of what was written in the man's own notebook. His name. Where he's from as well as some other names. Muslim names. Evidence of espionage, you know? Man, I had to stop my guys from kicking the shit out of him before they wrapped him up. I tell you though, ma man, when I saw the coded messages in his book, I just had to put my cigarette out on that spying dog's body, you know? I like our country. I'm loyal to my country, like you are, ma man. I don't want Western spy bastards starting a revolution like they have in our other Muslim lands. I tell Hamid this and man, he is as angry as he is excited to have this dog, you know?" he chuckled and continued to focus on the road.

  Rebecca sat in the passenger seat of Edward's jeep as he drove through London, heading for Albert Embankment. Both of them had a thousand and one thoughts racing through their minds as they stared dead ahead.

  "Do you think he's dead?" Rebecca asked calmly before bursting into tears.

  Edward pressed his lips firmly together. Of course the thought had entered his mind, but not that night. "No. He's alive and you keep believing that, OK?" he said, firmly. His eyes glazed over as he concentrated on the road.

  15. LUXOR STREET

  The Black Mercedes travelled through the Iranian streets and passed the day to day hustle and bustle of usual street life. Cafés and markets, shops and general businesses.

  The Iranian driver turned and gestured with his hands left and right out of the window and towards the windscreen. He looked at Siamak on the passenger seat next to him.

  "No revolution. No demonstrations. No displays of ill treatment. Not one single person holding up a board saying 'Down with the USA'. Everything the same as it always was, so why on bastard Western news channels do they show pictures of fires, crowds of civil unrest and a call for our leader to be removed? I tell you why. Because it is fake. It is fake and we have to prepare for an invasion, my friend. I've studied this. It's propaganda and is a total psy-op. It's a psychological operation. Seriously. Why remove Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? We have schools and we have great surgeons and doctors and teachers. We also have the oil, my friend. It's another oil war and a chance to put in one of their loyal Western puppets again. The person in the trunk will change things. He's, how you say? A bargaining tool."

  Siamak managed a smile, looking out of the window, squinting at the brilliant whiteness caused by the sunshine beyond.

  It was daybreak over the Iranian sands of Kavir-e Lut. The desert blanket rolled on for what appeared to be forever in the south-eastern Province of Kerman. The crescent-like hills, known as barchans, and the leafy heaps called nebkas were natural relics. It was a tranquil place, yet very much a place of loneliness.

  The gleaming black Mercedes S Class scrolled across the invisibly marked-out road. The heat rippled upwards where the ground met the sky and it distorted everything in sight. The vehicle's bonnet soaked up the rays of the sun. The bluest of skies reflected within the tinted windows, making the occupants feel there was another world beyond the glass: a safer world; a happier world.

  The Mercedes slowed to a halt as an older, beaten-up white Mercedes model blocked the route ahead.

  An Iranian man, in his early thirties, stood by the rear of the white Merc. The man had three days' worth of stubble on his face. He was a dirty, sweaty man in crisp, modern clothing. He wore a blue and white chequered scarf around his neck. His jeans were either Armani or fake Armani. He narrowed his eyes and put on a pair of shiny gold aviator-style sunglasses, which he kept in the breast pocket of his white cotton shirt. The shirt was absolutely spotless, as if it had just been removed from its packet, or taken off a coathanger at the dry cleaner's. How could somebody have a shirt that clean in a place as scorching hot as this? He wiped his brow with the back of his right hand as his left clutched an AK47 assault rifle.

  This was without a doubt the most successful rifle ever produced. One could roll a tank over an AK or even sink it in water and it would still manage to shoot accurately, without fail.

  The Iranian man who held this weapon was called Hamid. The boot of the black Mercedes popped open and Hamid scrunched his face up and almost pouted. His eyes narrowed to a squint once more and he glanced around behind him, thumping twice upon the side of his own vehicle.

  A second, similarly-dressed Iranian man clambered out of the driver's side of the white Merc. It was Siamak and he adjusted his shirt collar, with the car keys just dangling from one hand as the other shoved a Desert Eagle pistol down the front of his jeans. The gun's handle was clearly visible and looked threatening as he joined Hamid at the boot of the car.

  They exchanged a look as Siamak unlocked the boot, turned around and propped his Ray Bans atop his head.

  Hamid slung his rifle over his shoulder as Siamak raised the lid.

  The two of them ventured a few sandy feet away from their white vehicle and passed the driver's side of the black, more modern one and went to the boot at the rear. Together they reached into the darkness of the boot and struggled as they pulled out a body wrapped in brown parcel paper. They staggered, turning around with the package, wincing at the weight, as they heaved the bulk into the boot of the white Mercedes with a slump.

  The first man, Hamid, hot-footed it back to the black Merc and closed the boot lid, gently tapping the glistening metal. The engine purred and the black vehicle smoothly made a turn, leaving the area. It went back the way it came from, with Hamid and Siamak standing in its tracks in the scorching sun.

  The men watched the black shape shimmer in the heat as it slowly disappeared out of view.

  Siamak climbed into the driving seat of the white Merc and Hamid shuffled into the passenger seat next to him, slotting his AK47
between his knees.

  Siamak inserted his key into the ignition and turned it, bringing the car to life. He lowered his sunglasses, released the handbrake, slammed the car into drive and did exactly that: he drove. Across the sandy terrain, which rose, dipped and weaved without a glimpse of shadow.

  Hamid fumbled inside his jean pocket and pulled out a pack of Wrigley's Spearmint gum. He brought the pack to his mouth and took hold of a stick between his teeth, as if it were a cigarette. He offered the pack to Siamak, who simply waved his hand, declining. Hamid shrugged and unwrapped his stick of gum, throwing the wrapper to his feet on the floor.

  The old Mercedes travelled smoothly across the desert sands of Kavir-e Lut. It was a terrific view. It was like a pre-historic, mechanical beast meandering along in the sunshine, as if it were a daily occurrence. Only Libya and the US possess similar deserts to those of Iran.

  Unfortunately for the body wrapped in brown parcel paper, housed within the boot of the car, this was not the US. This was Iran.

  There were some ruins in the distance. It looked like an ancient industrial ghost town.

  Siamak looked out of the windscreen at the ruins. His mind raced with a thousand and one thoughts. He hadn't seen this place before.

  The sun continued to beat down, although it was now later in the day. The white Mercedes, with an open boot, was parked near the ruin. It had either been bombed out, abandoned due to old age or both; neglected, rotten, like the men within.

  Hamid leaned against the rear of the vehicle. He looked up to the blue sky and squinted. He eyed the hunks of twisted metal nearby, glanced inside the boot and plucked out a pack of Bahman branded cigarettes. Pleased with his find, he slammed the boot lid down to a close and retrieved a shiny silver Zippo lighter from a front pocket to his jeans. Hamid tapped out a single cigarette, placed it between his tightly pressed lips and flicked a flame from the Zippo. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag from it, exhaling his white transparent smoke into the blue sky, like a rogue cloud.