by Oliver Tidy
‘The video – did the Englishman accept our version of events?’
The Iranian intelligence officer snorted derisively. ‘Like a child. This one is not a professional in the way we are. I feel it. He is too ready to believe. He doesn’t question. He doesn’t think. He will be easy to manage, to manipulate.’
‘Do not become over-confident. Things are far from accomplished. There is still much to do and much that can go wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong.’
They offered the traditional Persian farewell to each other and hung up.
***
7
Acer was up and dressed in his damp clothes, drinking what passed for coffee when they arrived. With no television or other distractions in the flat, he’d been standing at one of the windows at the front of the building. It gave him sight of the street and also, because of its elevated position, afforded something of a view over the sprawling neighbourhood beyond. It looked far less hospitable by daylight than it had in the soft light of breaking dawn. More open, more dangerous.
Hassan and the woman arrived together in one car. It was not the car she had driven the previous evening. He watched them from the shadows as they stood for a minute and discussed something. They could have been arguing. The woman waved her arms and gesticulated wildly. Acer was reminded for a cruel moment of Eda and her way of speaking with her arms flailing away when she became excited. The man smoked and remained outwardly calm as he had on each of the two occasions Acer had met him.
Acer was struck again by a slight similarity in their appearances. Something about their brows made him wonder whether they were genetically related. They certainly didn’t strike him as a couple, loving or otherwise. But any resemblance was only physical. Their temperaments seemed poles apart. He was calm and controlled, apparently devoid of emotion. She was like something possessed, with a ferocity she seemed barely able to control.
They arranged themselves around the table in the kitchen end of the open plan living space. After polite enquiries from Hassan regarding how Acer had slept – the woman clearly couldn’t have cared less – he placed a holdall on the table between them. He opened it and took out a camera with a telephoto lens, a street map of Qom, another map, more food, a pair of sunglasses and an old pair of trainers. Acer smiled his thanks and picked up the footwear. He checked the size. Satisfied, he slipped them on.
He was hungry and without ceremony tore off a strip of the slab of bread and began chewing. It was still warm and tasted as good as any bread he’d ever eaten. He mumbled his appreciation.
‘We have an idea,’ said Hassan. ‘It is not a new idea for us. We have been considering it as an option since we learned you were coming. We would like to discuss it with you.’
‘No harm in talking,’ said Acer, through a mouthful.
The man lit a cigarette and then, as an afterthought, held it up and said, ‘Do you mind?’
Acer shook his head. It seemed ridiculous to him that the man even asked. Their lives were in danger; they’d watched a collaborator have his face shot off; they were planning acts of espionage in a country that executed for less, and the man didn’t want to offend him with his second-hand smoke. The thought prompted Acer to wonder, not for the first time, at which of England’s public schools Hassan had been educated. His English and the way he spoke it was better than his own command of his mother tongue and the man’s manners were very British, almost impeccable.
Hassan said, ‘If we can get photographs of the woman, what will you have? Photographs of a woman. They might even look like Mrs Hammond.’ It was the first time her name had been used and for Acer it brought a sense of reality and gravity to proceedings. ‘I don’t know what this woman looked like before she came to Iran. She has been here for how long?’
‘Over a year.’
‘Over a year,’ repeated Hassan. ‘People’s appearances can change over a year if they are happy and living a good life. This woman has suffered loss and bereavement of the closest of family members. She has been imprisoned and separated from her only surviving child. She is being held against her will by an oppressive regime and forced to work on something that will challenge her ethics. That kind of existence can change a person’s appearance significantly.’
‘What are you driving at?’ said Acer, despite an unpleasant inkling he already knew.
‘We could get your photographs. It’s possible that they could be good and clear. But will they be the irrefutable proof your government seeks to show that Iran has conspired to kidnap and hold British citizens against their will? I don’t think so. I would expect Iran to simply reject and dismiss any such claims based solely on photographic ‘evidence’ as the ravings of a society with an axe to grind. One thing I can assure you of: such an allegation would certainly be to sign Mrs Hammond’s and her child’s death warrants. They would never be seen or heard of again. That would be no good to them, no good to you, no good to your government and no good to our interests. We would all have endangered our lives for nothing. Worse than that, we would be responsible for what happened to them.’
‘You’re going to suggest we snatch her and the child?’ Acer looked between the two of them and neither of them argued with him. And the penny dropped for Acer. These people had deliberately contrived to put him in the position in which he now found himself: no passport, no charter flight home, alone and totally reliant on them. They had done it so that he would be that much easier to manipulate.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Hassan, holding Acer’s stare, said, ‘Yes.’
‘And then what?’
Encouraged by Acer’s continued engagement, Hassan said, ‘And then we get the three of you out of Iran. Your government arranges your collection from a friendly country and you are all flown home. Your government has their irrefutable proof to stir up a storm of international condemnation and outrage, we have a springboard for civil action and Mrs Hammond and her child get their lives back.’
‘Out of the country how? Out of the country where? The moment Mrs Hammond and her child are snatched it won’t take VEVAK long to work out why the switch was made at the airport. What wouldn’t they do to find them? Borders would be sealed up tighter than a hangman’s knot. And then they’d employ every resource they had to wheedle us out. They could not afford to let us escape.’
‘My point exactly,’ said Hassan. ‘Whether it’s now or after your government have made allegations based only on photographic evidence, VEVAK, as you say, simply could not allow the woman and her child to leave Iran and tell their stories. We would all have wasted the investment of our time and effort. Barid has already given his life for this. Mrs Hammond and her child would have theirs cut short.’
Acer realised he’d played himself into the man’s hands. But even before the coup de grace of the argument had been delivered, he had been forced to agree with the reasoning, despite the obvious logistical complexities of successfully pulling off such a thing.
In London, sipping coffee from a bone china cup and saucer across from Crouch in the comfortable sanctuary of his desirable postcode, surrounded by a largely just society, where international law and order meant something to most people, his mission had sounded a reasonable proposition: doable. Get the evidence, get out, get back and we’ll have a quiet word in the Iranian’s listening diplomatic ear. Sort something out. An exchange, perhaps – yes, of course the British had Iranian nationals detained without record or charge – and no more said about it. Out here things were more black and white, more brutal, more real.
Hassan was almost certainly right about the fate that would await Mrs Hammond and her child if claims of their existence were made. And he, Acer, would have killed them as surely as if he’d put a gun to the backs of their heads and pulled the trigger.
Acer heaved out a big sigh, stood and went to the window. The man and woman said nothing. In the dull reflection of the glass he caught them exchange a look.
He turned back to them. ‘Tell
me how we could take them and then tell me what you have in mind for getting us out of the country undetected.’
Hassan moved what he had taken from his bag to the worktop behind him. He opened the city map and laid it on the table. Acer walked over to look at it.
‘The orphanage is here,’ he touched the map lightly with his nicotine-stained index finger. ‘She will be driven from Fordo sometime in the late morning, if the usual routine is observed.’
‘How many guards come with her?’
Hassan gave Acer a puzzled look. ‘Just a driver. One man. Why would they need extra guards? They have her daughter.’ Hassan turned his attention back to the map. ‘He is not supposed to let her out of his sight but, of course, he also knows there is nowhere for her to go, nothing for her to do other than visit her child – comply – and so he socialises, drinks tea and smokes. When her time is up they drive back to Fordo.’
Acer was unable to stop himself from imagining how that must be for the woman. He remembered her, her husband and their two children – twins – one boy, one girl, from The Rendezvous, the old tall ship they’d all been sailing on before an armed gang of South African mercenaries had attacked them, left everyone for dead and taken the Hammonds to trade: to pay the debt of a crooked British politician. She had been a doting mother, energetic, intelligent, sociable.
‘Which of her children is in the orphanage?’
Hassan looked up from the map. ‘A girl.’
There was something in his look that made Acer say, ‘What is it?’
Hassan breathed in and out deeply. ‘She is not well.’
‘What do you mean?’
Hassan looked at the woman. She said, ‘There is something wrong with her immune system, apparently. She is often sickly.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Acer rubbed at his face. ‘Is she unwell now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any details that might help?’
‘No.’
‘Well the mother won’t leave without her, so we’ll just have to do what we have to do.’
Hassan nodded and returned to the sharing of information. ‘The orphanage has a bare minimum of staff – three.’
‘How many children?’
‘It varies. Usually the number is between thirty and forty girls.’
Three adults, thought Acer, to manage forty children. The implications of that must have shown on his face.
As if reading his thoughts, Hassan said, ‘The older girls are expected to help with the younger ones.’
‘How do you propose we get them away?’
Hassan bobbed his head up and down quickly, glad to be moving on to something constructive. ‘Niki and I will pose as prospective adoptive parents.’ It was the first time the woman’s name had been used. ‘While we are with the woman in charge you will go to the room the girl will be in and wait there until the mother comes. When she arrives you will have to convince her to come with us.’ He studied Acer keenly. ‘Will you be able to do that?’
‘Yes. I think so. How will I know where to go?’
‘One of the staff.’
‘Why can’t one of you approach her in the orphanage, convince her to come?’
‘Would you, if you were her? Would you trust an Iranian man or woman who you had never seen before? After what my country has done to her, do you think she would be trusting, unconditionally cooperative?’
‘Possibly not,’ said Acer. ‘Besides, I know her personally.’
Hassan’s head snapped up and Acer saw something that he hadn’t seen before in his eyes. ‘Do you? How?’
‘It’s a long story. I met her once. She might not remember me.’
Hassan studied Acer intently for a few seconds before turning his attention back to what they must consider. ‘I will give you a mobile phone. Call when you are ready to move. You will take the woman and the child to the car and we will meet you and leave.’
‘Just like that?’
Hassan smiled a little weakly. ‘Possibly not. We may need to improvise. It will be in all our interests if the woman and the child can be removed without a fuss, if the authorities can be persuaded to believe that the woman has simply absconded with her daughter and is intent on escaping Qom and Iran on some misguided and ultimately foolish whim. If they understand there are others involved – you, for example, or Iranians – then their enthusiasm for the searching will be greatly increased and our chances of success correspondingly diminished.’
‘I understand. How do you intend to get us out of the country?’ This was the most important question in Acer’s mind. Without a credible escape plan there would be no point in embarking on any of it.
‘We can discuss that when we are safely away from the orphanage,’ said Niki.
‘We can discuss it now, or there won’t be any trip to the orphanage.’
‘If we discuss in detail with you how we intend to get you out of the country and you are caught and encouraged to share what you know with VEVAK, associates of ours will be compromised. A route we rely on will be jeopardised,’ said Niki.
‘I repeat, we can discuss it now, or there won’t be any trip to the orphanage. If I don’t believe that there is a credible exit strategy in place with a strong likelihood of success then there is absolutely no point in risking everything and people’s lives, mine included, on a maybe.’ Encouraging his stubborn standpoint as much as anything was the less than capable way he judged them to have handled things so far.
‘You are right,’ said Hassan. ‘Your life is at stake. You are entitled to ask and we should respect your need to know.’
Niki began jabbering excitedly in her own language. Hassan raised a finger to her and spoke calmly. She exhaled noisily and was then quiet. Acer ignored her.
‘It will be impossible for you to fly out of Iran. Security at the airports is too rigid. And, of course, paperwork would be an issue. With the likelihood of descriptions being circulated we must find an alternative. But we need to get you out of the country quickly. We will get you to Bandar Abbas.’
‘Where is that?’
‘In the south.’
‘Why not north? To the Turkish border, for example?’
‘Because that is what they will expect. We have organised a boat to take you across the Persian Gulf to the United Arab Emirates. There you will be safe.’
Acer instantly didn’t like it. But the dynamics of his getaway had changed. He couldn’t resist the term ‘escape’ to describe what lay ahead of him and he felt intense irritation for it. If he agreed to go ahead with what was being suggested, he would be responsible for three lives, not just his own. He had to trust these people. He had no choice. The moment he’d been persuaded to give up his clothes, his possessions, his identity and his place on the plane, he’d put himself entirely in their hands.
It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He’d been encouraged to come to Iran on a simple reconnaissance mission. Get some evidence if you can, Crouch had said. Do your best. It’s a hard ask, but we have to try for the children if nothing else. Acer reflected ruefully on the memory – for the children.
He tried to keep his feelings to himself. ‘How far is it to Bandar Abbas?’
‘Seven hundred miles,’ said Hassan.
‘Seven hundred? There has to be somewhere closer?’
‘Of course, there are places closer. But, as I’ve said, as soon as they realise the woman and her child are missing those places are where they will concentrate their efforts, their searching. Be under no illusions. They will do everything they can, mobilise every agent in their employ and recruit more to ensure she does not leave the country, does not even get close. It is highly unlikely they will expect them to attempt to leave the country by boat to Dubai. It is the opposite direction to home.’
‘Why are we taking a boat and not a plane to Dubai?’
‘As I said: paperwork and security.’
Acer said, ‘Seven hundred miles across potentially-hostile territory – how do you propose we g
et there?’
‘Train. An overnight sleeper from Tehran. The highways would take too long and you would be too exposed.’
‘Tehran?’ said Acer, and from the way he delivered the two syllables it was clear what he felt about that suggestion.
Hassan affected not to notice. ‘Yes. There is no connection from Qom. We will have to get you back into the capital.’
Acer was silent for a long moment. Then he said, ‘If we’re going to Tehran, what about taking them straight to the Swedish Embassy? They’re supposed to be taking care of British passport holders in Iran.’
‘As soon as they understand she is missing with her child, the Swedish Embassy is one of the first places they will watch. We would have little hope of getting any of you in and even less of getting anyone out and repatriated alive.’
Acer said, ‘It seems you have it all worked out.’
‘Of course. What do you expect? Remember, this isn’t about what we can do for you; this is about what you, the woman and her child can do for us. We have a significant vested interest in you getting them back to the United Kingdom so that she might tell her story. Also, we cannot afford to have you apprehended. Not now. You know where we can be found.’
Acer was reminded again of Niki’s threats. With little else to be gained from talking around the same topic, he said, ‘Let’s talk about tomorrow then.’
Niki left them to it. Beneath them the factory gradually came to life. The dulled noises of machinery and the calls of the workforce reverberated up through the fabric of the building. The apartment warmed up as the sun clawed its way clear of the horizon, and the holy city of Qom went about its business.
They drank tea and Hassan smoked almost without interruption. Acer had to hope that this was normal behaviour and not a reflection of the anxieties the man felt for how things might turn out. That would not suggest or inspire confidence.