Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  We found a barbers shop where I had a shave. They gave us directions to the nearest bath house, which was a Qajar period Hamman; where I took a shower. I felt conspicuous in my cloths so we found a men’s clothing shop. Normally I’m quite particular about what cloths I buy; St James’s, Saville Row and Bond Street are my normal haunts - but I was here out of necessity. When the shopkeeper realised a big sale was in prospect, nothing was too much trouble. After cups of mint tea we left after nearly an hour. My purchases included a pair of trousers in which I could conceal my Glock and my tracking device, shirt, jacket, socks, underwear and trainers. I wore these as I left the shop; plus additional clothing, for which I purchased a small holdall, in an attempt to look like a normal traveller.

  Recalling how famished we both were, we found an out of the way cafe where we ordered a Persian breakfast, consisting of flatbreads, yoghurt, cheeses and spreads with coffee. We ordered a couple of jugs of water to quench our thirsts. I ate ravenously. I felt like a new man – after being freshly showered and shaved, wearing new cloths and now feasting on a simple breakfast. It was good to be back in civilization!

  “I’m thinking of leaving the country on whichever flight gets me out quickest, I don’t care where to,” I said between mouthfuls, “The sooner I’m out of Iran, I figure the safer I’ll be.”

  “If they’re looking for us, their bound to have the airports watched,” cautioned Guy.

  “I’ll take that risk. I can’t bear the thought of travelling across this vast land as a fugitive hiding away in the back of Lorries and god knows what.”

  Unable to offer a convincing alternative and acknowledging that everything we did had risks, Guy merely said, “Fair enough.”

  “Fair? What’s fair got to do with it?” I demanded after what I’d had to endure.

  After breakfast we found a travel agent where I enquired about flights. They informed me that all scheduled flights from Torbat-e-Jam were domestic and that if I wanted a flight out of the country I would have to fly to Tehran and catch a connecting flight from there. The next flight was not for another four hours for which I purchased a one way ticket in cash.

  I had time on my hands, “Coffee?” I suggested.

  We found an old coffee shop. Each table was enclosed by a booth, thus affording more privacy and making it difficult to see how many customers were in the shop and ordered two coffees. The walls were decorated with Persian blue mosaics, depicting geometric patterns. We sat at a table - I facing the door and Guy with his back to it. I mentioned Rostami’s revelation of Iran’s imperial ambitions.

  “Oh that old chestnut. I’ve suspected as much for a while,” Guy said candidly shaking his head, “Persian imperial designs, coupled with the fervour to disseminate a Shia Theocracy. Somehow I don’t think the Sunnis will be too keen,” he said in understated fashion.

  Just then from behind me I heard footsteps approaching on the wooden floor. Guy suddenly stopped talking and glanced up to see someone as they were about to pass our table and then averted his eyes. From the corner of my eye I casually glimpsed the back of a smartly dressed fair skinned man, dressed in western cloths as he past. I sipped my coffee indifferently. The man paid at the counter and walked toward the door. Guy looked over his shoulder and then turned and nodded at me with his head over his shoulder indicating the door. I looked and saw Simon Hurd just as he left the shop. I was so astonished that my coffee went down the wrong way and I started spluttering.

  “I’m going after him,” Guy whispered urgently, “If I’m not back in 20 minutes get a taxi to the airport and good luck!”

  He got up and dashed toward the door and left - just as I recovered from my fit of spluttering, I grabbed my holdall, paid the bill and ran outside and looked both ways. Locating Guy to my right, I crossed the road and walked briskly in order to shorten the distance between us. He turned left and went out of sight; prompting me to break in to a short run until I reached the turning. It was a narrow road the width on only one car, much quieter than the road I’d just left. There was a women coming my way, I ran past her, anxious that I had lost Guy, for I could see no one. I walked on puzzled as to where they were. Then I heard the sound of a scuffle a little further on. I came to a lane on my right, only wide enough for pedestrians containing some large communal rubbish bins and looked down it, to see Guy grabbing Hurd by his lapels and pinning him against the wall.

  They both turned to look at me before resuming. I came up to them and stopped. Guy was recalling the “charge sheet” against Simon Hurd of espionage and treason, which he had regaled me just before the explosions in the Bactria Valley.

  “Who the hell are you?” interjected Hurd, concern evident in his voice.

  Guy now placed one hand on Hurd’s throat; with the other Guy placed his hand down his own shirt where his collar bone was and ripped off his silicon mask. It didn’t come off cleanly but after a moments struggle his face was revealed. He discarded his mask; whilst Hurd looked on, terror and incredulity written on his face. The skin was blotchy, having been deprived of oxygen and small remnants of the mask remained on his face; but the unmistakable face of Guy Worthington was revealed.

  Initially his mouth opened speechless. Then he gasped, “Guy!”

  “Well! Do you admit your treachery?”

  “How dare you!” Hurd screamed incensed - a little bolder now he knew the identity of his accuser, “I don’t answer to the likes of you Worthington.”

  “No your right,” said Guy calmly, “You don’t answer to me. However you will answer for your crimes the moment you present yourself in Moscow.”

  Hurd seemed to be at a loss as to how to respond, he glanced over to me, “Captain Collingwood isn’t it?” he queried, “Have you heard Guy’s outrageous accusations against me?” he pleaded, invoking my support as he broke into a pathetic self pitying laugh.

  “Guy wouldn’t make such allegations unless he was certain,” said I coldly.

  “Perhaps you can explain what you’re doing here?” encouraged Guy.

  “I’m here to see the Sheikh Ahmad Jami Mausoleum,” said Hurd promptly.

  “And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that we’re just across the border from Azakistan and the Bactria Valley?” challenged Guy.

  “Hurd I saw you in the Bactria Valley with some Persians yesterday. Kindly don’t insult our intelligence,” I admonished.

  Guy continued his arraignment of Hurd, telling him how he had been observed meeting Iranian agents receiving cash, the information which he had betrayed and the cash deposits in his bank account. He looked away a broken man, knowing that the game was up and his treachery exposed. Guy released him and took a step back. Hurd’s bravado had vanished and he looked a diminished man.

  “I don’t suppose it matters now,” Hurd began meekly forcing a black laugh, “I’m here to meet my handler Mehrab Rostami. I’ve given him blueprints for the Royal Navy’s new Type 45 Destroyer’s anti aircraft missile system - PAAMS.”

  Guy shook his head as his face reddened in anger, “The site of you disgusts me. You’ve nothing to look forward to except scandal, disgrace and prison,” concluded Guy with bitter contempt, he turned away from Hurd, repulsed and then left the lane.

  “How could you?” I whispered rhetorically shaking my head in disbelief; as I gave the traitor one last look of enmity, before turning to join Guy.

  He looked at me disdainfully and then laughed cynically, “You’re one of these simple minded fools Collingwood. Loyalty! Hah! Loyalty – where’s it ever got anyone?” he said derisively, “What are you doing here – playing at part time soldier? You can’t imagine how amused I was when I heard you were coming to Moscow to investigate your friend’s murder. With the sort of people Sinclair got mixed up with he was probably asking for it.....he just got his comeuppance!”

  Suddenly, with his last words I was consumed with fury. I looked left and right – there was no one about. I was standing barely two metres from Hurd. I whipped out my Glock in a secon
d and pointed it at him. Just as the realisation dawned upon him and the expression on his face changed to one of horror, I squeezed the trigger and fired a single shot at point blank range into his heart. He fell against the wall and then slid down it, before resting in a crumpled heap – dead! A feeling of grim satisfaction and contentment came over me as I looked down at the traitor’s corpse. I put away the Glock. I’ve never been one for littering. So I grabbed him, mindful of not soiling myself on his blood and draped his body over the side of the rubbish bins, which were nearly five feet tall. I then grabbed his legs and threw them in as his body disappeared inside the bin.

  “You didn’t kill him?” I queried gently as I caught up with Guy.

  He took a moment to compose himself, “Had I not left when I did Tarquin, I would’ve surely have killed there and then. If I had, no one would know why, this way, his treachery will be known; and he’ll carry the dishonour of his crimes until he dies,” said Guy sadly, as a man who found the whole business of dealing with traitors wholly unpleasant.

  “Yes, but what about the blueprints?” I asked.

  “Remember my telling you about the false information we gave him access to, in order to see if he’d betray it? The blueprint of PAAMS - the Principal Anti Aircraft Missile System that he has, has been doctored and won’t work. They’ll spend a great deal of time and money and endure the odd fatal explosion before they realise.”

  I was relieved. “What do you think he’ll do now?” I asked, not wanting to disclose that I’d just executed him.

  “Do I look as if I care?” said Guy bitterly, “He’s persona non grata as far as I’m concerned.”

  CHAPTER 32 – AN “INCONVENIENCE” FLUSHED AWAY.

  Guy removed all traces of the silicon mask and washed his face. We took a taxi to the airport. Thus the only weapons we had were our pistols and knives. It was a bright sunny day and it was now early afternoon. The airport was provincial; its terminal was a two storey building and was as small as I had imagined. There were only a few dozen passengers in the check-in area and all but two check-in desks were closed. Most of these passengers were men with just a few women and children. So far every woman I had seen in this inhuman theocracy had had her head covered. The check-in for my flight had yet to open. Guy then excused himself and was away for several minutes.

  “What will you do once I’ve gone?” I asked after he had rejoined me in the waiting area.

  “There’s a lot more to all this than just the Bactria Valley, that’s only one part of the picture,” said Guy softly as he surveyed our surroundings, “As Rostami disclosed to you the Iranians have other bases inside Iran - these need to be placed under observation for intelligence gathering with a possible view to covert operations being mounted against them.”

  “I....see, so your work is not done?” I asked grateful that I was now out of it, “I’m going to the toilet, would you get something to eat and drink for the both of us,” I requested, as I handed him a pile of notes.

  I went in search of the toilets, willing them to be clean and not of the squat variety. When I found them, I cursed for they were closed. The attendant pointed upstairs, so I went up to departures. I passed several boarding gates, which were empty and there was hardly a soul about; but for the gate for the flight to Shiraz, which contained a few passengers. Further along there was a sign indicating toilets and airline lounges. The latter contained the English letters V.I.P. For the first time since I had arrived at the airport a plane could be heard coming in to land. I watched through the large windows at the runway which ran parallel to the terminal, as the sound got louder and the air filled with the sound of the aircraft’s engines. The sound then changed as the aircraft must have landed, for the engines were in reverse thrust in order to slow the aircraft. And then it came into view as it majestically glided along the runway past the terminal building – it was an executive jet.

  I continued on and saw the sign and turned left down a little corridor and found the toilets. There were four urinals, four cubicles and several hand basins in a spacious white tiled room. I was the only one in there. Once I had finished I set about washing my hands when someone came in and headed towards one of the cubicles. I discerned that it was a tall white man from the corner of my eye. This inspired my interest; for there aren’t many foreigners in these parts. So I looked across at him - and in my horror was stunned and swallowed hard – it was Yuri Gromyko. He went into a cubicle and I heard the lock being turned. Just when I had forgotten about those Russians, one of them presents himself to me.

  There was nothing to think about! I dried my hands and ran to the entrance, next to which there was an alcove where the cleaners kept their equipment, grabbed what appeared to be an “OUT OF ORDER” sign, stuck it on the outside of the door and closed it from the inside; and then got a broom handle and wedged it through the door handle. Got out my Glock and stood by the basins, slightly off centre from the door of the cubicle which he had just entered. It dawned on me that I had killed almost as many men these last few days than I had in my entire time in the army and now I was resolved to add this bastard to that tally. If ever there was a fellow who deserved to be dispatched Gromyko was it! My heart beat furiously as the adrenaline surged through me and I came out in a cold chill of anticipation. After waiting a moment he hadn’t come out. Lord knows what the bastard was doing. I ran up to the door and gave it all almighty kick – it burst open with a crash, revealing Gromyko rising from his seat pulling up his trousers, startled at being interrupted. I pointed my Glock at him and with my other hand brought my finger to my mouth to indicate for him to be quiet. I recognised the conspicuous scar on the left of his face. He was as large as I remembered him, with thick powerful limbs and Slavic features - as coarse a looking brute as you ever saw.

  “Yuri Gromyko?” I asked for the sake of completeness.

  He nodded and uttered a word in concurrence.

  “Do you remember Bosnia all those years ago?” I asked not even knowing whether he spoke English. “Vania.... Goric?” I pronounced slowly. With the mention of that name there was a light of recognition in his eyes.

  He started smirking and then I’m certain, began cursing me softly in Russian. He took a couple of small steps toward me, so that he was now standing just outside the cubicle. His arms were poised by his sides and I was convinced he was about to lunge toward me any second; so I took a step back to maintain the distance between us.

  “I was in Vania Goric that day,” said I pointing a finger to my chest; wanting him to know that it was I who killed his comrades and nearly killed him that day.

  “Do you know Andrew Sinclair?” I asked putting one hand around my neck to remind him of how Sinclair had been killed, “He was my friend. Was it you?”

  “An - drei Sink - lair,” he repeated with a heavy accent.

  His eyes enlarged with the recollection coming to him; infuriatingly he still seemed to find the whole thing amusing - grinning maniacally as if he rejoiced at the memory of Andrew’s murder. He nodded - which I took as an admission of guilt. Like the dumb brute he was, he seemed to have no sense of fear or remorse.

  And then in a blink of an eye; like the Russian bear he was, he burst into a sprint and then made a huge lunge toward me. He moved astonishingly quickly for a man of his size. My heart leaped with surprise and I jumped back. My waist came up against the hand basins and then I had to take a quick side ways step to my right to stay out of his reach. He crashed into the basins where I had been standing – I took another step away from him and brought my gun up and shot him side on, into his left flank. I only had time to get in one shot before his left arm lashed out furiously with such speed and force that his hand hit my Glock and caused it to leap out of my hand into the air over my head, before it came clattering down on the floor and slid away. He then grabbed his left side realising he’d been shot. They say a beast is at his most dangerous when wounded. With that thought in mind I turned and made a dash for my Glock. But as I did so I
felt something constraining me from behind – he had grasped the tail of my jacket. As I strained to get away, he kicked my right foot causing it to give way and released his grasp simultaneously. I lost balance and fell forward flat on my stomach. His quick reflexes and strength reinforced my sense of alarm as I landed – my face inches from the floor. Glancing ahead and seeing my weapon at the far end, I began scrambling across the floor desperately using my arms to propel me forward. I felt him grip my left ankle. I looked over my shoulder and tried to kick free using my right leg; and saw that he was crouched forward. After I had managed to get in about three kicks in the air, he also grabbed my right ankle and then hauled me toward him. I felt as if I was being sucked in to the clutches of a monster from whom I would not emerge alive. Wriggling my legs furiously, I tried to grip the floor with my arms and gain some purchase against this seemingly irresistible force - but in vain. I kicked again trying to break free, drenched in a sweat of desperation, summoning what strength I had. Then my left ankle was released bearing witness to my thrashing about, causing it to hit his stomach inadvertently. He gave out a most appalling primordial scream, as I must have hit his wound. His face was contorted with pain. Exultant at having found his weakness, I kicked him in his stomach again, but this time deliberately. He still had my right ankle in a vice like grip, which at that moment he released. Freed, I got up and urgently began to run toward my Glock; but as I did so was suddenly engulfed by some enormous weight bearing down upon me. I went crashing down on the floor, realising that Gromyko must have leapt on me, despite his wound. As I landed I braced myself – notwithstanding, my forehead hit the floor and sent a stinging sensation all over my head. I crawled toward my left, lest I be trapped under his bulk. As I did so, I felt his left arm grab me between the shoulders and raise me a fraction off the floor. I lashed out violently with my arms and legs, but it was utterly ineffectual; for he turned on his side and his other arm came from nowhere and before I knew what was happening his right hand was clamped around my throat, as we tussled. Realising that this was no time to be preoccupied with ethical considerations over Marquis of Queensbury rules – in a frenzy I kicked him hard in his groin, punched him in the face and then began gouging out his eyes with my fingers. While he meanwhile, began to squeeze my throat – my eyes felt as if they would pop out as I struggled to breathe. Nothing I did seemed to work! I brought up my right leg and desperately fumbled for my knife under the hem of my trousers in my boot. All the while I was being throttled and at risk of losing consciousness, with ensuing death! As soon as I had the hilt in my hand I pulled it from my boot and stuck the knife with as much force as I could into his left thigh. He gave out a deafening roar of pain and released me as he tried to remove the knife. At this I rose up coughing and spluttering from my near throttling; and half stumbling, ran and then dived to my Glock.