‘We’re going to make a run for it,’ he told Jafari. ‘Stay low and follow me.’ He eased one door open. To the surprise of the two men in the vehicle immediately behind, O’Connor dropped to the road and Jafari followed. Bent double, they weaved their way through the traffic until they were able to blend into the crowd. The Peugeot came to a stop a short distance away and the two officers from the crack 110 Rapid Response unit shouldered their way into the crowd, which had formed a semi-circle around a young Iranian woman, buried in a hole in the middle of a dirt courtyard.
‘Sharia law is clear!’ the mullah shouted at the woman. ‘In accordance with Article 105 of the penal code, my judgement is that you are guilty of adultery, and the punishment for that is death by stoning!’ The crowd of mainly young men roared their approval. The young woman, her face almost level with the dirt, shook her head from side to side in terror.
The mullah took several paces towards the petrified captive. In Sharia law, since the conviction was not based on the testimony of witnesses but the opinion of the religious judge, it was the mullah who would throw the first stone. The stone too, had been carefully chosen in accordance with Sharia law: not large enough to kill the adulteress with the first few strikes, but not so small as to be classified a pebble. The mullah took careful aim and threw. The rock hit the young woman’s face, smashing her cheekbone, but her anguished cry was drowned out by the crowd shouting Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!
‘Get down,’ O’Connor commanded, spotting the uniformed police amongst the mayhem. ‘Fucking barbaric,’ he muttered, cursing himself for being distracted by the stoning and pulling Jafari towards a crowded side alley. They reached another major road, and the roars of the crowd and the shrill voice of the mullah were distant now. Several cabs were drawn up near where O’Connor had exited the laneway, and he picked the taxi with the least number of dents in it.
‘How much to Qasr-e Shirin?’ O’Connor asked in fluent Farsi. O’Connor had already done his homework on the options for escape, such as they were. The border to the east with Afghanistan was a possibility, but that was over 1000 kilometres away, and once Jafari was recorded as missing, O’Connor knew it wouldn’t be long before Golzar brought in reinforcements. Instead, he’d decided to try for the border with Iraq, although that was still a good 500 kilometres to the west. Qasr-e Shirin was a small city in the foothills of the Zagros mountains near the Iraq border. It had once been a stopover for the ancient caravans using the Old Silk Road, and Alexander the Great had passed through the city on his way to invade Persia in 331 BC; but its attraction for O’Connor was that the long stretches of desert between Qom and Qasr-e Shirin were connected by well-constructed roads: Highway 56 and Highway 48. The main border crossing into Iraq was marked by a heavily fortified post at Khosravi, 20 kilometres to the south-west of Qasr-e Shirin, but O’Connor had no intention of trying that route. A dirt track through the desert to the north-west of Qasr-e Shirin connected with the border in a remote area that was sparsely inhabited, mainly by Kurds. He would need a lot of luck, but if he could call up a Seal team from across the border in Iraq, they might just make it out.
The wizened old taxi driver’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. ‘Too far! Too far!’
O’Connor withdrew a large wad of rials from his backpack and waved them at the driver.
‘Too far!’ he protested.
O’Connor shrugged and pulled out his Glock 21 and pointed at the terrified driver’s face.
‘Drive!’ he ordered.
Chapter 20
The huge artillery round had exploded in the Shahadis’ lounge room, demolishing the cinder-brick building in a massive blast. Ahmed raced towards the smoking debris and screamed as he came across Rashida, both her legs missing, her face burned beyond recognition.
‘No, no, no!’ Ahmed cradled Rashida’s lifeless body. Mansoor struggled up the hill and Ahmed turned towards his father, tears streaming down his blackened cheeks. ‘The Israelis have done this!’ he yelled, his face a mask of grief.
Mansoor, his wizened features frozen in shock, moved further into the rubble, only to find the blackened, broken and burned bodies of his wife and two daughters lying together in the rubble of what had once been the Shahadis’ kitchen. Mansoor looked up to see Omar Abbasi, their Sunni neighbour, charging through the smoke, brandishing a pistol.
‘Shahadi! You Shi’ites!’ he screamed, his eyes wild with hatred and grief. ‘You heretics! Look what you and Hezbollah have done! You have brought the wrath of Allah on us all!’
Without warning Abbasi brought the pistol up in a trembling hand and fired. Mansoor, clutching his chest, slumped to the ground and fell against the body of his wife, a bloodstain spreading over his dust-covered clothes. Abbasi turned and fled down the hill before Ahmed had a chance to react.
Ahmed stood for a few seconds, stunned. Blinded by tears of grief, he gently laid Rashida’s body on the ground and ran towards his father. By the time he reached the shattered kitchen, Mansoor was dead.
CNN’s nightly news anchor, Walter Crowley, looked grave as he prepared to go to air with the lead item: Israel Invades Lebanon – Again.
‘International criticism is mounting,’ Crowley began in his mellifluous tone, ‘over what many see as Israel’s disproportionate response to the recent capture of two Israeli soldiers on patrol on the southern border of Lebanon last week. The Israeli Defense Force has launched a comprehensive air and ground attack across Lebanon, with continuous bombing sorties and barrages of artillery. The assault has put the Rafic Hariri International Airport out of action and reduced hundreds of buildings to rubble in the Haret Hreik sector of Dahiye.’
The producer cut to video footage of bombed-out buildings, streets blocked by huge mounds of twisted reinforced concrete, burnt-out cars and trucks, and electric wires dangling from poles leaning drunkenly towards the rubble. A massive fireball was seen erupting as an Israeli missile struck a high-rise apartment building in another densely populated area, sending clouds of smoke and debris hundreds of feet into the air. The vision shifted to exhausted rescue workers carrying the dead and wounded away from the twisted wreckage of the Halat Bridge in the Christian heartland of Beirut, and then to the side of a highway where the bodies of migrant workers, killed while trying to flee the attacks, lay in rows in a ditch.
‘An attack against the Jiyeh power station in the south of Beirut has sent 10 000 tonnes of heavy fuel oil into the Mediterranean,’ Crowley continued. ‘The Israelis have invaded Lebanon three times previously, and these latest attacks come at a time when the Lebanese have just finished rebuilding key infrastructure. In southern Lebanon, assaults on villages close to the border have resulted in over half a million Lebanese fleeing their homes.’
The vision cut to an old woman in a chador struggling over a pile of concrete, carrying what she’d been able to salvage from the wreckage of her home in plastic bags.
‘All major road bridges have been destroyed, and the highways are crowded with refugees. Aid organisations are trying desperately to provide food and water. The European Union has issued a statement expressing concern over the disproportionate use of force, and some senior officials in the United Nations have described the Israeli attacks as a violation of international law. But other officials have been equally critical of Hamas and Hezbollah for abducting the Israeli soldiers. The UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan has issued a statement deploring the loss of life and urging restraint on both sides, demanding that Hezbollah release the two captured Israeli soldiers.
‘Here in the US,’ Crowley continued, ‘calls for a ceasefire have been rejected by the Bush administration.’ The vision cut to the US Ambassador to the United Nations, John Bolton, saying, ‘The notion that you just declare a ceasefire and act as if that is somehow going to solve the problem, I think is simplistic.’
The producer flicked to live coverage of a rally on Manhattan’s East Side, where over a thousand people had taken to the streets in support of Israe
l, including Senator Hillary Clinton. ‘I want us here in New York to imagine, if extremists and terrorists were launching rocket attacks across the Mexican or Canadian border, would we stand by or would we defend America against these attacks from extremists?’ the senator asked. ‘Israel must know that Americans and people who value freedom and the rights and dignity of human beings around the world stand with Israel as she defends herself against these unwarranted, unprovoked attacks of Hamas, Hezbollah and their state sponsors.’
‘And now to other news making headlines this day …’
The little village of al-Bazourieh was devastated, and the sheer number of bodies made it difficult for the community to adhere to the Muslim practice of burial as soon as possible after death. As the only remaining family member, it was Ahmed’s heartbreaking task to shroud the bodies of his parents and sisters. Three days after the Israeli artillery had levelled the town, the community gathered in the shell of the mosque for prayers for the Shahadi family. The coffins were all draped in the red, white and green Lebanese flag, the one covering Rashida’s tiny white coffin wrapped twice around.
Prayers complete, the men of the community shouldered the rest of the coffins while Ahmed carried Rashida’s, and the funeral procession wound its way from the shattered mosque to the cemetery on a small hill just outside the village. There the family was buried, each body facing Mecca. Long after the villagers had left, Ahmed stayed by the freshly dug graves, tears streaming down his face. By the time he rose, the sun had set, and he wandered numbly back to the makeshift tent he’d erected near the remains of the house, vowing that at the end of the obligatory three days of mourning, he would return to Beirut and offer his services to Hezbollah. If he were given the chance to avenge little Rashida and the rest of his family, he swore he would kill as many Israelis and their supporters as he could. And if he could avenge his father’s death, he would take out Sunnis as well.
Chapter 21
General Shakiba picked up the secure line to his office. ‘Shakiba.’
‘Rostami, here, sir,’ Colonel Rostami announced nervously. ‘There have been some developments. I’ve just received a report from Major Golzar. Major Jafari spent last night in Tehran, and this morning, he returned to the International Hotel in Qom … but now he’s vanished.’
‘He’s absent without leave?’
‘Yes, sir. He hasn’t reported for duty this morning.’
The line went ominously quiet. ‘You think he’s found an interest in Qom … or do we have a spy in our midst?’ Shakiba demanded finally.
‘Hard to say, sir. Jafari’s pretty naïve when it comes to women … Golzar’s all but ruled that possibility out. The major’s not sure what Jafari’s up to, but the night the Pakistanis were with us, Golzar found Jafari talking to a visiting professor from Trinity College Dublin. So far, the professor’s visa checks out, but we’ve checked with the hotel, and he’s disappeared as well, and Golzar strongly suspects the two events might be connected.’
‘Where’s Golzar now?’
‘In Qom, sir, directing the search.’
‘Tell Golzar to contact me,’ Shakiba rasped angrily. ‘Give him my direct line. I’ll have Jafari’s and this professor’s details placed on a priority watch-list at all the airports, ports and border crossings. There’s a lot at stake here, Rostami, and we relied on your recommendation with Jafari. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if he’s working for the infidel!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rostami was wasting his breath. The line was already dead.
Fifty kilometres west of Qom, O’Connor ordered the terrified driver to pull over. He took out his encrypted satellite phone and dialled up the CIA’s operations centre in Baghdad.
‘This is Cyrus, how do you read me, over.’
‘Cyrus, this is Zero Alpha, five by five.’
‘Currently located grid 452821, will require extraction vicinity grid 547824, at first light tomorrow.’
‘Roger, Cyrus, grid 547824… wait … wait out.’ There was a pause on the line before the voice continued. ‘Cyrus, this is Zero Alpha, copied extraction grid … could that be a hot extraction, over?’
‘Quite possible, over.’
‘Roger, Seal Team Five is briefed. The team leader’s call sign is Alcatraz One and they’ll be in position west of the line by dusk tonight.’
‘Cyrus, roger out.’
O’Connor grinned to himself as he climbed back in to the taxi and ordered the driver on towards Kermanshah, a large city nestled in the shadow of the Zagros mountains. West of the line meant the Seal team would find a location as close as they dared to the Iraq–Iran border, without alerting the Iranians to their presence. It would be tricky stuff, but O’Connor had every faith in the Navy Seals. They were the best in the world.
Four hours later, they refuelled and grabbed some kebabs. The driver had relaxed a little, perhaps because O’Connor had insisted he take 150 million rials as compensation for the hijacking of his taxi. As night fell, they headed towards the city of Eslamabad-e Gharb. From there, if they weren’t intercepted, they would turn north towards Kerend-e Gharb and on through the remote mountains to Sarpol-e Zahab where, provided their luck held, they would be in striking distance of Qasr-e Shirin and the border.
Golzar checked his watch as he reached for the ringing phone in his room at the Qom International Hotel. It was well after midnight.
‘Golzar.’
‘It’s Captain Kashani, sir. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I thought you ought to know a taxi driver’s been reported missing. He was due to finish his shift at six p.m., but he hasn’t shown up. His wife said it’s very out of character, so I’ve had the police here do a thorough search around Qom, but so far without results.’
‘You were right to call me, Kashani. Have a description of the driver and the registration number of the taxi sent to all the border crossings and all police stations. Call me immediately if you have something,’ Golzar said, his mind racing as he put down the phone. Was the missing taxi driver just a coincidence, or was he connected with the disappearance of Jafari and the Irish professor?
It was just past five-thirty a.m. when the taxi reached the outskirts of Qasr-e Shirin. The sky behind the high mountains that shadowed the city was tinged with pink and purple, and the driver slowed for a herd of sheep blocking the road. The shepherd shouted in Kurdish, and a mangy sheepdog started to herd the animals to the side of the highway, past a rusty water trailer and on towards some large, dirty tents where chickens were scratching for food around the base of a banana plant. O’Connor was reluctant to go through the centre of the city, but the remarkably modern dual-carriage highway, lined with eucalypts and palm trees, was the only route to the turn-off. The traffic was light, save for the odd truck belching black diesel smoke headed in the opposite direction.
As they came over the top of a rise, O’Connor’s worst fears were realised. A police roadblock had been set up, although at this hour of the day, Route 48 to the border with Iraq was deserted.
‘Fuck it,’ O’Connor muttered. ‘There’s always some bastard who’s going to spoil my day.’
‘What do we do?’ Jafari asked, a tremor in his voice.
‘Stay calm, for starters. There’s only one police car, so that evens things up … a bit. Pull up a few metres short of the roadblock,’ O’Connor instructed the driver.
They rolled to a halt and O’Connor watched the older of the two police officers, his face lined, his white beard neatly trimmed, immediately reaching for his radio. The younger officer, excitedly brandishing a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, screamed, ‘Get out of the car! Get out of the car!’ O’Connor judged he wasn’t much more than nineteen.
‘Do as he says, now,’ O’Connor ordered. The taxi driver opened the car door, which temporarily distracted the young officer. O’Connor leapt out and fired, hitting the policeman in the shoulder. The man dropped his machine gun and O’Connor kicked it towards Jafari on the other side of the t
axi. The older officer reached for his SIG Sauer P220 pistol but O’Connor fired instinctively again, hitting him in the arm. The policeman staggered but didn’t lose his gun.
‘Drop it!’ the CIA agent yelled in Farsi. The older officer hesitated and O’Connor fired again, hitting him in the wrist. The old Iranian’s pistol gently arced towards the ground as the man clutched his wrist with his good hand, his face twisted in agony.
‘Face down in the ditch, both of you!’ O’Connor ordered, jerking his head towards the ditch on the side of the highway. The younger policeman hesitated and O’Connor put a round alongside his boot. ‘Face down in the ditch, or the next round will be through your head,’ he growled. ‘Cover them, Jafari.’ He turned to the taxi driver. ‘Have you got any rope in your trunk?’
The old driver nodded numbly, his eyes filled with fear.
‘Get it!’ O’Connor worked swiftly, taking the older police-man’s keys and handcuffing both officers’ hands behind their backs, by which time the taxi driver had returned with some oily old rope.
‘Get in the ditch with them,’ O’Connor said, winking at the old man so he would know he meant him no harm. The old man willingly joined his two countrymen. O’Connor lashed the taxi driver’s hands behind his back, leapt out of the ditch and retrieved the P220 and the police radio. He ran to the cab, shoved it into gear and parked it on the side of the road, shielding the ditch from view. O’Connor then grabbed his backpack and yelled at Jafari, who was holding the submachine gun as if it were about to go off. ‘Come on! We’ll take the police car, it’s in better nick.’
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