by Azam Hossain
Just at that moment the entire building was filled with the screeching and deafening sound of an aircraft. I picked up the Glock and turned around to see him coming at me like some maniacal beast. It was impossible to miss such a target at point blank range – I fired two shots into his chest in quick succession. The shots were barely audible in the room, drowned out as they were by the aircraft engines. He fell toward me carried by the momentum of his motion, like some ancient tree being felled. I leapt out of the way as his body came crashing down, making a smack sound as it landed on the tiled floor. The sound of the aircraft now receded quickly. He lay still, face down, and then with Glock still in hand I stood over him as I turned his body over with my feet. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and his clothes had turned crimson in colour where his chest was. Gratifyingly the cunt was dead....and I wondered how many scores that settled.
“That was for you Andrew!” I whispered as I put away my gun.
I paused for a moment to get my breath back. I bent forward, my hands on my knees recovering; my head and throat were sore, my eyes and nose moist and I felt like retching barely able to stand. I retrieved my soiled knife, washed it and placed it back in my boot. After a moment, I began to haul his corpse into one of the cubicles, so as to delay his detection. They say that there’s nothing quite so heavy as the weight of a dead man; and I could only agree as I struggled to move him any way I could. I cursed, perspired and strained every sinew as I slowly managed to get him into a cubicle, before hauling his corpse onto the toilet seat. I then locked the cubicle from the inside, climbed over the wall into the next cubicle and went to the wash basins and mopped up the blood on the floor. Then washed my face and hands and ensured I looked presentable; removed the broom from the handle, let myself out and closed the door behind me with the “OUT OF ORDER” sign still hanging outside.
CHAPTER 33 – COMRADES DELIVERED AND AN ADIEU.
“What kept you?” asked Guy.
“I had a run in with one of Andrew’s killer – Yuri Gromyko,” I explained, “It’s astonishing the filth you come across in foreign toilets.”
“So what happened?”
“He and my Glock had a disagreement, he came off second best and I left him perched on his throne,” I said airily as I bit into the kebab Guy had just handed me.
“In that case the sooner you’re on that flight the better,” Guy observed.
A little later I checked-in for my flight to Tehran. Guy looked over my shoulder toward the terminal entrance - someone had caught his attention.
“Let’s go outside for a moment,” he said distracted.
We got outside. Guy left me by the kerb and crossed the road to a waiting Renault, one of whose occupants had only just returned to the vehicle. He stooped down and spoke to the two occupants through the driver’s window before returning to me.
“Some good news Tarquin,” he extolled, “two of your comrades have been picked up safely by the Germans after crossing the border – a Major von Weizsacker and an Azaki called Ismail,” he announced with an intonation that suggested he wanted me to confirm I recognised the names; which I duly did.
“Thank heavens,” I said, my genuine pleasure on hearing such good news was tempered by the recollection of my two less fortunate comrades, “I don’t suppose they know about Mueller and Aziz?”
“No, I don’t suppose they do,” the poignancy evident in his voice, “I’ll be sure to let them know. With any luck they may be able to recover the bodies.”
I gave the faintest nod and there was an awkward silence.
“Well Tarquin,” Guy said, breaking the silence, “this is where we part. I dare say you won’t have any problems from here on in.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said as we shook hands firmly.
“Just think we’ll be able to dine out on this story amongst select friends, until the end of our days,” he said, bringing a smile to both our faces as our hands parted.
He gave a last nod of acknowledgement before returning to the Renault. I watched as the car drove off, raising my hand in farewell and barely crediting the fact that I was still alive.
There was nothing to do but wait for my flight. As the afternoon had progressed the airport got busier as more passengers arrived, so I went upstairs where it was less crowded. Just then I and other passengers noticed a commotion further down the terminal building near the toilets. Several men, some in uniform had arrived from the other end of the terminal. It seemed that his body had been discovered and I possessed the murder weapon! I turned around and walked in the opposite direction attempting to exude an aura of calm, underneath a funk of dread. When I had reached a quiet area I looked around furtively to ensure I was not being watched and then sat down. I pulled out my Glock, detached the magazine which I placed in my pocket and then bundled up the Glock and my knife in an item of clothing from my holdall. I placed this bundle in a nearby litter bin and walked back to my boarding gate and dropped the magazine in another bin en-route. I went through security and entered the gate for my flight. Exhaling nonchalantly I sat down with my back to the main terminal corridor, which was visible through the glass wall that divided the gate and the rest of the terminal. My fellow passengers were all Persians, mostly men, including an elderly couple who looked so old they may have been around in the days of the late Shah’s father.
Our plane was parked on the tarmac a short distance from the terminal; it was a rather old Tupolev 154. I turned to look through the glass wall, to see what developments there had been. There were a couple of officials at the top of the stairs; they appeared to be waiting to greet someone. I looked at my Breitling; there were 33 minutes until our scheduled departure. I picked up a discarded newspaper; it was the Tehran Times an English language daily. Once I had begun to read I heard a stir amongst the passengers and so put down the paper and saw that the gate agents had arrived. We were to board at last! The passengers began to stand up and gather their belongings, as did I. Turning around, I saw that several men in uniform had come up the stairs and were greeted by the two awaiting officials. Some were undoubtedly police, but the other men had the appearance of the IRG. One of them was taller than the others – than to my horror and surprise I realised it was Lieutenant Pahlavi! Christ!! I averted my gaze instantly and in my terror nearly lost control of my bladder.
CHAPTER 34 – A FIRST CLASS DIVERSION.
Just at that moment the gate agent made an announcement that had the passengers forming a queue. I reflected grimly that my killing Gromyko could well be my undoing; for it had effectively been a de facto summons to my pursuers to come to the airport. Regardless of what happened now, I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had dispatched Gromyko and I was glad that I had. I milled into the queue to present my boarding pass as well as I could, hoping to manoeuvre myself so that there would always be passengers between me and the glass wall. I daren’t even look back, petrified that I would do so just at the moment that Pahlavi was looking in my direction. After leaving the gate we went via a ramp and then down some stairs to the tarmac. With aircraft engines nearby the sound here was quite deafening and one had to shout to be heard. There were still people tending to the plane, which was nearly 50 metres in front of us. We’d been sent down prematurely. I consoled myself that at least I was nearer the plane down here and out of sight of Pahlavi. I then noticed the executive jet, that I saw landing earlier parked outside the terminal to our left, much further down from where we were. I wondered casually who’d be flying on an executive jet in this provincial part of Iran? I abruptly recalled Gromyko! He wouldn’t be here by himself. Of course not!! Oh what a bloody fool I’d been. I laughed at my own stupidity. Just then I saw some figures coming from the terminal approaching the executive jet. I strained to look and as if to confirm my suspicions – it was Zhukov, Anastasia and Pavlovitch!
The ground staff member went back up to the gate, so there was no one here but us passengers. The upper floor of the terminal overhung the ground floor by
several metres; as a result there was a colonnade the length of the building. It was sunny and I was exhausted, I therefore moved toward this area where I could take refuge in the shade and sat down on the ground, concealed partially behind a pillar. Just then the ground staff man came back down looking rather flustered, followed by a couple of IRG. I ensured that they didn’t see me. He was telling all the passengers to return back upstairs. The passengers began groaning in dissent, in response to which one of the Guards began shouting in reproach. I moved further away alarmed and hid by a pillar and watched until they had gone. The Revolutionary Guard must have decided to screen all passengers in searching for the murderer – for otherwise why would they be accompanying the ground staff in getting the passengers back upstairs?
Discreetly I slipped away whilst staying close to the colonnade, as I walked its length self consciously toward the executive jet. Perversely the only way out of this as far as I could discern, was to see if Zhukov would give me a lift. I didn’t fancy falling into the clutches of the IRG or being a fugitive all alone, unarmed and not speaking Farsi. The more I thought about it Zhukov was my only hope. If I turned up begging a lift would he make the connection? I would just have to bluff it out. I broke in to a gentle jog to get to the jet before it was too late. Finally when I reached the part of the building that was closest to the jet I left the shadow of the terminal and strode out to it.
A crew member was at the foot of the stairs as they boarded the aircraft. She greeted Zhukov who was at the head of his party. Just as he started climbing the stairs and as I closed the distance I called out over the sound of aircraft engines, “Mr Zhukov!”
They turned in unison to look. Anastasia saw me and then averted her gaze, no doubt the memory of the ardent lust we had enjoyed, inspired feelings of guilt. I came up to them and stopped.
“Hello,” I said gushingly, “I thought it was you. Do you recall we met at the Onegin Gallery? Damian Willoughby’s the name.”
Zhukov looked down at me inscrutably from the stairs, exuding the apogee of sang froid.
“Yes I recall,” he announced barely moving his lips, “What you want?” he asked brusquely.
He can’t have been in the best of moods: he’d left Azakistan abruptly, had to wait for his plane to arrive and then discovered that his henchmen Gromyko had been killed.
“I’m being called back to Moscow urgently on business. When I saw you from the terminal I naturally assumed that’s where you’re going. My flights been cancelled. I’d be most grateful if you’d allow me to fly with you,” I said imploringly.
“What are you doing here?” he asked calmness personified.
“I’m collecting and buying art works,” I shouted in reply over the cacophony of engines.
His eyes narrowed as if he were weighing up the plausibility of my explanation.
“But you told me in Moscow that you weren’t an Art dealer,” he queried.
“I’m not,” I said modestly, smiling, as if the inquiry were an impertinence, “I’m buying for myself.”
He gave a weak smile in penance, “Forgive me. Yes, you must come with us,” he beckoned, gesturing for me to climb the stairs, “You’ve met Ms Olonova and this is Pavlovitch,” he said pointing them out perfunctorily.
I acknowledged them with a nod as Zhukov turned and resumed climbing the stairs.
The luxury and ambience on the jet was in stark contrast to the conditions I had endured in Azakistan. It appeared that after the cockpit there was a crew rest area, which one had to walk through to get to the cockpit – this was closed off to us by a door. The jet was spaciously configured with a mere eight white leather upholstered passenger seats. Each pair were configured one seat forward and another rear facing across a table, separated by the aisle. The front four seats, where I sat with Zhukov and Anastasia, were separated from the rear four seats by a bulkhead, which was as wide as the wings to which they were adjacent. After the bulkhead there was a cloakroom on the starboard side. Then came the rear four seats and behind them was the galley and then a toilet. The decor was varying shades of white with a deep pile carpet. The panel work and table were mostly hardwoods such as mahogany. There was the faintest smell of leather and stale cigar smoke mixed with a cool perfume. On the right hand side of the aisle Zhukov sat facing backward, with Anastasia sitting opposite him facing forward, a table between them; I sat facing forward adjacent to her with the aisle between us. Pavlovitch sat in the rear as befitted his rank. A moment after taking our seats the stewardess served chilled champagne and canapés. I looked out of the window and saw that the passengers for my flight to Tehran had now started boarding. They would have discovered that one passenger was missing – a foreigner; for whom they must now be searching.
Wanting to escape momentarily from my travails, I brought the flute to my lips and took a sip, closing my eyes so that my senses might better concentrate on the taste. As I did so I heard the sound of more people boarding and then the doors being closed. I let the champagne circulate around my mouth, breathed in and let my palate go to work. It had an almost creamy texture, expansive bouquet, crisp and clean with an explosion of fruity flavours.
“Not the best champagne in the world Mr Willoughby, but quite good?”
I swallowed and opened my eyes. Zhukov was looking across at me amused.
“Dom Perignon?” I conjectured.
Zhukov gave a little laugh as if he’d scored a small victory, “You disappoint me. It’s a Krug Grande Cuvee. I also drink Cristal - but only on special occasions.”
“Your tastes are exquisite,” I praised thinking that flattering the fellow did no harm; but instead of stopping there I heard the words, “Your taste in women is equally refined,” coming out of my mouth, as I turned toward Anastasia with a nod.
I mildly reproached myself for my bout of vino veritas. She looked embarrassed, but Zhukov was pleased.
“To beautiful women,” announced Zhukov as he raised his glass in a toast. I met his gaze, raising my glass and then took a sip.
At that moment the aircraft started moving from its parking spot. We fastened our seat belts as the jet taxied along the runway. Once we had reached the end, the aircraft slowed and turned around as it came to rest at the end of the runway and paused. In the tranquil surroundings of this luxury jet, with my fatigue, coupled with the orgy of killings in which I had indulged, I was content to call off all hostilities against Zhukov. Christ knows I’d done my bit! By killing Gromyko I could tell myself that I had satisfied my vow to avenge Andrew; whilst disregarding the fact that I was enjoying the hospitality of the very man upon whose orders he’d been acting. An uncomfortable compromise, I grant you. Besides it seemed such bad manners to kill one’s host. Just then the engines increased in volume and we started moving, gathering speed swiftly, as the engines could be heard going to full thrust as we hurtled down the runway. And then I felt the incline as the aircraft left the ground and we became airborne. Down below I saw Persia diminish as we rapidly climbed. Torbat-e-Jam seemed so inconsequential, surrounded as it was by mountains and barren wasteland - visible as far as the eye could see.....before it all became obscured by clouds.
Once we had reached our cruising altitude the stewardess appeared from the galley and took the lunch order for each of us in turn. I relaxed as she brought me a generous gin and tonic. Moments later I got up and went to visit the lavatory. In so doing I walked past the rear four passenger seats. To my consternation I saw two men whom I’d never seen before and Pavlovitch. These two must have boarded when I was swilling champagne. One of these men was leaning against the fuselage sitting in the rear facing seat; he had dark hair and appeared to be reading a magazine which obscured his face. Sitting opposite was Pavlovitch, next to whom on the other side of the aisle was the other man. These latter two were drinking from cans of beer and eating some meat and bread. They can’t have drunk anything as guests of the Persians, for their host’s religion forbade it – and now that they could, they drank like fishes
.
Once I reached the lavatory the only thing further aft on the fuselage, was a storage area for baggage, accessed through a door, where the fuselage became too narrow for anything else. When I had finished I opened the toilet door and discovered Anastasia standing outside.
“Wait,” she whispered conspiratorially, to which I halted.
She looked down the cabin to ensure no one was near and then turned to face me, “There is something I must ask you,” she said furtively looking me directly in the eye.