by Andy Maslen
Her destination was only half a mile away. She remained on high alert but somewhere, a spark of hope had ignited. Her hand felt sweaty on the pistol’s grip. With her left hand, she pulled out her phone and sent a short text to Julian Furnish.
Aborting. Admit in 15.
She crossed College Bridge into Hafez Street. No more shops, just an open area planted with palm trees and hundreds of scarlet roses. As she walked past the display, inhaling their sweet perfume, she remembered randomly that the rose was the national flower of Iran. Who knew?
Left on Ghazali Street, skirting the impressive compound of the Russian Embassy, its gardens home to even more roses, plus tulips, carnations and bird of paradise flowers. Right on Pars. Left on Nofel Loshato Street. Right on Ferdowsi Avenue. The pavement ahead and behind was empty.
By the time she reached the metal gates of the British Embassy, the Iranian police guard on duty had moved aside to allow the Deputy Cultural Attaché to emerge. Eli walked straight up to him. He placed an arm on her shoulder, smiling broadly.
“My dear Ms Arifaki. Taking a break from the book fair? Come inside. We’ll have tea and talk about literature.”
He turned to the cop.
“Metshekerem.” Thank you.
Then he ushered Eli inside the compound, the gates clanging together behind them as they walked.
“We’ve been blown,” Eli said. “Gabriel’s still in play. He’s headed to Vareshabad.”
Target Apprehended
Gabriel reached the outskirts of Vareshabad at 4.30 p.m. The logistics people at Marlborough Lines had done their homework. The real village bore a striking resemblance to its breeze-block and white-paint counterpart in the wilderness at the centre of Salisbury Plain. Though as Gabriel had observed at the time, the temperature difference was striking. England in late May was enjoying balmy temperatures in the midtwenties Celsius. In the scrubby desert in Northern Iran, currently midway through a spell of freakishly high pressure, it was hot enough to fry an egg on the bonnet of Gabriel’s hire car. The drive had taken an hour, and even with the white Nissan’s air conditioning going full blast, the interior of the car was still only cool rather than cold, and the air puffing out of the vents smelled of mould. But as he stepped out of the cramped cabin and slammed the door closed with a tinny clang, the full force of the Iranian climate hit him.
The heat was dry and intense, like stepping in front of an open furnace. He knew he was sweating, but it was evaporating off his skin as soon as the beads of moisture appeared. He took a bottle of water from his bag and swigged half of it down. He ripped the document case’s lining away from the zip, reached inside and closed his fingers around the leather-wound hilt of the slim-bladed stiletto. Nodded to himself and let go. He didn’t zip up the case again. Next, he checked his inside breast pocket. His fingers touched the cold, blunt metal end of the striker pen. Backup. I’d rather have Eli .
Owing to his having arrived in the hottest part of the day, the dusty streets were deserted. Not even a dog had ventured out. Every house wore shutters over its street-facing windows, their blank faces lightened only by the occasional pot of scarlet geraniums by the front doors.
He climbed back in and reversed to the turning he’d just passed. According to the map, in half a mile or so, a track would lead him around the western edge of the village and up into the hills. He looked to his left as he drove. The village itself was small. Only a few dozen houses. He assumed most of the residents had jobs at the nuclear facility outside the settlement. He could see it shimmering in the heat haze on the far side of the village, along a straight, metalled road. He reached the last house, then was past it.
The map was right. To a degree. A track did indeed lead into the hills from the village, but its purpose clearly had very little to do with easing the passage of motorised vehicles. Its broken surface might have suited livestock or strolling farmers, but the Nissan was finding it heavy going.
After fifteen minutes of torturously slow driving, at no point during which did Gabriel have the luxury of keeping the steering wheel still, he reached a wider stretch. Unclenching his stomach muscles, he drove along for a few more minutes before reaching the end of the track: a roughly oval space a kinder soul than he might have described as a turnaround.
He climbed out. Then winced at a sudden squawk of protest from the area of his kidneys. He put on the foppish Panama hat he’d brought all the way from a shop in Winchester, rolled up in its own stiff cardboard tube. The shade cast by its wide brim and a pair of sunglasses allowed him to stop squinting.
From the sheaf of papers in the document case, he withdrew a map marked with fictitious archaeological sites in and around Vareshabad. He put another two bottles of water, the Fairbairn-Sykes and a pair of binoculars into a daysack he’d bought earlier. Then he started climbing into the hills along what appeared to be a goat track, to judge from the scattered clumps of dry droppings. He dropped to one knee and looked closer. Yes. The tracks imprinted on its dusty surface confirmed his initial impression. So not everyone worked on building a nuclear bomb, or cleaning and cooking for those who did.
He reached a barren patch of rocky land scabbed here and there by patches of brownish-yellow lichen growing on immense flat stones. Rounding a corner, he found what he was looking for. A stand of perhaps a dozen short, twisted trees growing out over a precipice. Along every branch, small, green fruits were emerging from behind browning flowers. Beyond the trees, a sandy ledge gave a perfect view of the nuclear facility. He sat with his back to one of the trees and pulled out the binoculars. In keeping with his admittedly thin cover, these were not military-spec, but a still-serviceable pair of Nikons such as an amateur archaeologist on a field trip might own.
Bringing the rubber cups snug against his eyes, he adjusted the focus, closing first one eye then the other and tweaking the ridged knob until he had a pin-sharp view of the bomb factory. Against an almost painfully clear blue sky, the place had the look of something a child might construct out of white building blocks. A white sphere occupied the central space, flanked by low rectangular buildings, with narrow cylindrical towers off to one side. The access road was a wavering black strip all the way from Vareshabad to the gates, which Gabriel could see were defended by a tall, glinting wire fence, and armed guards standing in towers mounted with what looked like light machineguns.
He checked his watch. He’d arrived an hour earlier. He had no idea if nuclear weapon scientists kept office hours but he imagined Darbandi would be putting in plenty of overtime. If he left work late, so much the better. There’d be less traffic on the road and fewer people around. He consulted his memorised briefing note on Darbandi. Unusually for a man living somewhere as hot as Iran, Darbandi did not drive a white car. His was black. A Mercedes E-class. Presumably the German air conditioning was sufficiently well engineered to cool the man down after a hard day planning genocide.
The registration plate was etched into Gabriel’s mind, too: 71Q333-11. Black-on-white, it was a private plate, the 11 signifying Tehran city. As he was engaged in an activity deemed illegal under international law, Darbandi did not use a red-on-white government plate, to which he was presumably entitled. More of the plausible deniability so loved by the people Gabriel and his colleagues at The Department regularly went up against. And, he supposed, The Department itself.
By 6.45 p.m., the worst of the heat was gone, and Gabriel began to enjoy the cooler temperature, out here, in an oasis of calm. If only for a short while. He took the Fairbairn-Sykes from his daysack and turned it in the sun, so that the edge glinted. Soon it would be buried deep into the vital organs of Abbas Darbandi.
A shout in Farsi from behind him jerked him out of the focused state of mind he’d dropped into as he watched the gates.
“Ha tew! Cheh kear ma kena?” Hey, you! What are you doing?
Staying seated, Gabriel slipped the knife into his jacket pocket, lowered his binoculars and turned slowly, assembling a well-meaning if puzzled smile.
Suddenly aware of the distant tonk-tonk of goat bells, he found himself facing a powerfully built man in his early or middle forties, dressed in a traditional white kaftan over baggy trousers and sturdy leather sandals.
The man had startling green eyes that glared at Gabriel from a face seventy percent covered with a ferocious reddish-brown beard and moustache. In his left hand, he carried a long staff, by the look of it carved from a single tree branch. His right hand was empty. But it was the object strapped over his back that Gabriel fixed on. An ancient rifle that could easily have dated from the turn of the twentieth century.
As Gabriel got to his feet, the goatherd, if that’s what he was, dropped the staff. He unslung the rifle and brought it around and up to his shoulder. Despite his predicament, Gabriel found time to identify the rifle properly. A Lee–Enfield .303. It may have been old, having been launched in 1895, but it could still snuff out a man’s life – his life – perfectly well at ranges well beyond the ten feet now separating him from his aggressive new companion.
Gabriel let the binoculars drop to his chest then raised his hands and spoke, clearly but not loudly.
“Letfa. Shelak neken!” Please. Don’t shoot!
In response, the man worked the bolt back and forth to load a round from the short steel magazine into the breech. He jerked the rifle’s stubby muzzle at Gabriel, then swung the barrel back down the path. His meaning was clear. You’re coming with me.
Gabriel walked ahead of the man, then flinched as his captor jabbed the muzzle into his back, right between the shoulder blades. Gabriel kept his back bent and his head down. He raised his hands and placed them on the back of his head as he walked back down the path. The rifle’s muzzle was digging painfully into his back. Which was perfect.
Target Acquired
In a single, fast, flowing movement that Eli’s Krav Maga instructors would have approved of, Gabriel ducked and rolled anticlockwise, sliding around the business end of the Lee–Enfield. He completed the turn, grabbed the wooden fore-end with his left hand and pushed it out wide, and stepped in towards his captor. Now the rifle was useless. An encumbrance.
As the man’s eyes widened, Gabriel pulled the striker pen from his breast pocket with his right hand. He clamped his thumb over the top, brought it up, then smacked it down, point-first on top of the man’s head. His green eyes, so sharp a second earlier, lost focus and rolled up into his head until only the whites were showing. He staggered sideways for a second. A second was all Gabriel needed. He dropped the striker, grabbed the stiletto from his jacket pocket and stabbed the man under his ribs and up into his heart.
As blood surged from the ruined pump to fill his chest cavity, the man died. He collapsed into a heap, blood spurting from the crater the striker had punched through his skull, and the small hole in the front of his robe, which was rapidly changing from white to scarlet.
“Shit!” Gabriel hissed. Then again, louder this time. “Shit!”
Then he dragged the body back to the stand of trees, between the two nearest until he reached the drop-off. He looked over the edge. It was an uninterrupted, near-vertical drop across more of the weirdly flat rocks to a thick patch of greyish-green bushes smothered in orange flowers.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he said, meaning it. Then he uttered, almost as a prayer, the mantra Master Zhao had taught him. “I honour your life.”
Then he rolled the corpse over until gravity took hold of it. He watched as it tumbled over the rocks, gathering speed until it crashed into the centre of the flowering bushes. Their blossom-laden branches shook angrily for a few moments, then were still again.
Heart pounding in his chest, he returned to his observation post and brought the binoculars up to his eyes again. Fuck! Have I missed him? He scanned the road from the fortified gates of the facility all the way back to the village. He couldn’t see any cars at all. No, wait! Yes. But it was white. A small hatchback. He kept waiting and watching. Five minutes later, relief flooded his system. Cruising up to the gate from the factory side was Darbandi’s long, black E-Class. The licence plate matched. He could even see the target’s face through the windscreen.
Gabriel ran back to the hire car and started the engine. He threw it into gear and spun the steering wheel as he accelerated out of the turning circle, racing to intercept Darbandi. The potholed goat track did its best to rip the car’s suspension from the chassis, but Gabriel didn’t have the luxury of slowing down. Instead he floored the throttle so that the car almost seemed to skitter over the crests of the holes. Clamping his jaws shut, he gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned bone-white, and powered down the hill towards the spot where it joined the road.
As he reached the metalled road, he slowed a fraction. He turned to his left and saw, between two widely-spaced houses, Darbandi’s car driving through the centre of the village.
Good. I’ll let you leave by the main road then get in behind you.
Ahead, as the houses thinned and then ended, Darbandi accelerated away from Vareshabad. Gabriel had a moment’s worry as he realised the big Mercedes could easily outrun his overworked little Nissan, then relaxed. He’s a scientist. He’ll just get to the limit then sit back and enjoy the drive home. Put on his favourite tunes and think about what his wife’s made for dinner.
And that’s exactly what Darbandi did. At 60 mph, he levelled off, and Gabriel was sure he saw Darbandi lean over as if fiddling with the stereo.
“Now you’re mine,” Gabriel said aloud, realising how hot the interior of the car was and leaning over to locate the knob to switch on the air conditioning.
When he returned his eyes to the road, it was to see Darbandi’s brake lights glowing bright red. He was slowing hard, and in a few seconds, Gabriel had made his decision.
Darbandi came to a halt. Gabriel pulled up fifty yards behind the Mercedes’s rear bumper and got out, the Fairbairn-Sykes tucked into the back of his waistband. He mentally rehearsed his Good Samaritan speech as he closed with the Mercedes.
“Hemh cheaz rewbh rah aset? Matewnem kemeketewn kenem?” Is everything all right? Can I help you?
He watched as the driver’s door opened. Darbandi climbed out. He looked back down the road at Gabriel and held his hands out wide.
Gabriel frowned. Motorists who broke down rarely emerged from their cars smiling.
Target Captured
Gabriel strode on towards Darbandi, retrieving the knife from his waistband and preparing to attack. Instead of retreating to the safety of his car, Darbandi leaned on the boot and folded his arms across his chest, the smile seemingly glued to his face.
Puzzled, Gabriel broke into a run.
The rear driver’s side door opened.
A man climbed out.
And pointed a pistol at Gabriel.
Then he gestured with the barrel at a spot on the road a few feet in front of Gabriel.
He spoke in English.
“On the ground!”
This was no sun-ravaged goatherd with a Boer War-era bolt-action rifle. The man, dressed in a suit and white shirt, looked fit, alert and ready to put a bullet in Gabriel’s torso without a moment’s thought.
Gabriel stopped running. The distance between them was twenty yards. Had it been twenty feet, and his opponent’s pistol in its holster, he would have sprinted on and killed him with a single knife-thrust. A US police report he’d read had concluded that inside twenty-one feet, a fast assailant armed with a knife would reach an officer before he or she could unholster, raise, aim and fire their service weapon.
Twenty yards.
Less than half the effective range for what he could now see was a Sig Sauer P226 – ironically, his own favoured short. It didn’t matter whether the Iranians favoured the 9 x 19mm Parabellum, the .40 S&W or the SIG .357 round. At this range, any of those lethal projectiles would blow a fist-sized hole in him.
He tossed the knife to one side, out of reach. No need to wait for the command. Then he got to his knees before lying face-down on th
e boiling-hot road surface. It smelled of tar and burnt rubber.
The bodyguard’s footsteps were unhurried as he closed the distance to Gabriel. Gabriel could hear the metallic taps from the man’s cleated boots. The striker pen felt reassuringly uncomfortable as it pressed into his ribs. Expecting to be hauled to his feet and frisked, Gabriel was ready. He’d let the man get him halfway vertical, stagger a little and pull out the striker in that split-second. Game over.
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A pair of black boots had arrived in his peripheral vision. He tensed every muscle, ready to fight. He heard a scuffing sound as one boot disappeared. Then a blinding flash of white light and a grenade of agony detonated inside his skull.
Then.
Blackness.
Later.
Pain.
Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open. The pain in the right side of his head was making him nauseous. He tried to reach up and touch his pounding temple. But his hand wouldn’t move. He was sitting on a hard, wooden chair in front of a simple wooden table. On the other side of the table, an empty chair waited.
He looked down, then inhaled sharply at the combination of a stab of pain and a roiling wave of nausea that left him sweating and swallowing hard. His wrists were tied to the chair with green plastic cable ties. He moved his ankles experimentally. Nothing doing. And he’d been stripped while unconscious.
The room was oversized for a torture chamber, he thought. Not that he had any experience. Perhaps twenty feet by thirty. Stained concrete floor. Grey-painted walls, also smeared with substances that could have been blood or shit. Fly-specked ceiling in the centre of which hung a single pendant lamp from a chain. One door. A coat-rack to its left.