by Ted Halstead
Vasilyev nodded approvingly. “It’s obvious you did. When you said ‘it is best to take nothing for granted’ I could hear his voice.”
Alina glanced at her watch. “I have hired you a cab which should be pulling up front in the next five minutes. It will take you to the train station.
The defector and our Iranian escort will be taking the same train. You will be in the same car to provide security overwatch in a neighboring compartment.”
Vasilyev frowned. “They have been briefed not to approach us?”
Alina nodded. “Yes. Security checks on train trips that do not leave Iran are usually not a problem, but it will not take much to attract attention. Note that the security guards on Iranian trains are armed.”
Vasilyev smiled. “We promise to be on our best behavior.”
En Route to Mahabad, Iran
“So, you said this was going to take about thirteen hours,” Grishkov said, looking out the train window at the passing scrubland.
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes. Then we take a bus to Naqadeh. Alina has arranged for us to pick up a rental car there stocked with the supplies we will need for the hike to the border. The defector and her Iranian companion will accompany us from there. We can safely drive as far as the outskirts of Nalous, and will hike from there in the direction of Sidakan. The helicopter pickup point is only a kilometer from the border, where a hill will prevent observation from the Iranian side.”
Grishkov frowned. “How far from Nalous will we be hiking?”
Vasilyev rocked his right hand side to side, which Grishkov knew meant he was guessing. "Including detours to avoid minefields and patrols, about fifty kilometers.”
Grishkov grunted. “A walk in the park in Chechnya. I am, though, concerned about our defector. How ready is she for this little stroll?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “We will soon find out.”
Grishkov shivered. He had been relieved to see on the ticket that the train was air conditioned, which had indeed been useful during the day. Now that night had fallen, though, the temperature had plummeted with no answering heat from the vents. He rummaged through his bag, finally finding his jacket.
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, this hike will definitely feature temperature extremes. I am sure that Alina had appropriate clothing packed for our defector. When we prepare our packs for the hike, though, we will need to make sure that what she needs ends up either on her back or one of ours.”
Grishkov held up the brochure he’d been reading, or more accurately examining the photos, since he didn’t read Farsi.
“This was in our briefing papers. What does it have to do with our mission?”
Vasilyev smiled. “With luck, nothing. It is for the Teppe Hasanlu, ruins dating back to 6,000 BC. It’s the reason we would give for going to Naqadeh and renting a car, if anyone asked. Plenty of tourists visit there, and it’s about seven kilometers outside Naqadeh. For this train trip, though, we’ll just say we’re meeting a business contact in Mahabad. It’s a decent size city of about one hundred seventy thousand people, so we wouldn’t be the only foreign businessmen there.”
Grishkov frowned. “One last question. Isn’t our being in a car along with two Iranians going to attract attention?”
Vasilyev nodded. “A fair point. First, remember that the old USSR actually bordered Iran, and the mix of people that resulted helps explain why both of us could pass for Iranian, at least through a car window. The local clothes
Alina put into the trunk of the cab in Tehran for us to wear on this trip didn’t hurt either.”
Vasilyev paused. “Of course, as soon as either of us opens our mouth any Iranian will know we are foreigners, since my Farsi is far from accent-free.
However, we Russians are far more welcome here than you might guess. Our friends at Rosoboronexport have been selling the Iranians weapons for decades, and we are one of the few countries to have kept up good relations after the Revolution. Two Russian businessmen, their Iranian contact and his wife decide to visit Iran’s cultural treasures? Odd, maybe, but not unbelievable.”
Grishkov grunted. “But we’re staying away from the defector and her Iranian escort until we have to travel together.”
Vasilyev grinned. “Well, yes. No need to push our luck. For this train trip, they have papers showing they plan to visit the Mirza Rasul baths in Mahabad, which has nothing to do with us or any documents we carry.”
Grishkov nodded, and then asked, "What did you pass to Alina at the cafe?
I know you well enough to know you weren't holding hands because you're planning to date her."
Vasilyev laughed and slapped his knee, and replied, "Excellent! I'd been wondering whether you were paying attention. That was the USB drive with the names of dead Shi'a from the Eastern Province. I promised to get it to Moscow, and so was simply keeping my promise."
Grishkov grunted, and shook his head. "Do you think anyone in Moscow really cares?"
Vasilyev shrugged. "Perhaps not. But in this business, you never know what information will be useful, perhaps in trade. It could be that someone else cares, after all."
They could both hear the door to their train car slam open and closed, and a few seconds later the door to their compartment flew open, revealing a scowling train security guard.
"Papers,” the guard growled in Farsi, thrusting his right hand forward.
Vasilyev and Grishkov mutely handed over their passports. After glancing at the covers, and then opening them to see that the photos matched the two men in front of him, the guard visibly softened.
Handing back the passports, the guard said in Farsi, “You are welcome in Iran. Enjoy your trip.”
Vasilyev and Grishkov both nodded and smiled, but said nothing. The guard next moved on to the defector’s compartment next door, leaving their door ajar.
Grishkov raised his eyebrows and whispered, “It appears you were right about Iranians liking Russians.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “I didn’t say all Iranians. But I’m betting you have Rosoboronexport to thank for that happy exchange.”
Grishkov and Vasilyev could both hear the guard requesting papers again, but could not clearly hear the exchange that followed. Within a few moments, it was clear from the guard’s angry tone that something was wrong.
Vasilyev moved silently through the door, listening intently to the exchange. Something had provoked the guard’s suspicions, and he could see an Iranian woman in the compartment holding her hands over her veiled face and sobbing. The guard reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder.
Vasilyev shot the guard twice with his silenced pistol, and he crumpled forward without a sound. Vasilyev grabbed him before he hit the floor and quietly told the Iranian man he could now see sitting across from the woman, “Help me get him inside.”
The man was clearly shocked by what had happened, but quickly moved forward to help. Simultaneously Grishkov appeared in the doorway, and quickly closed it behind him.
Vasilyev turned to Grishkov and whispered, “We have to get rid of the body, but if we just dump it off the train it will probably be discovered before we reach Mahabad. Ideas?”
To his surprise the voice answering Vasilyev was not Grishkov’s, but that of the Iranian man now gingerly holding the guard’s body sitting upright next to him.
“We are coming up to the Zarrineh River. If we hurry, we can have the body ready to throw off the trestle and with luck into the water below. That should buy us some time. It will take two of us to get him out of the compartment.”
Vasilyev nodded, and gestured to Grishkov to help. Then Vasilyev turned to the Iranian man and hissed, “Keep her quiet.”
Grishkov glanced at the woman who sat as still as a statue, evidently in shock. He knew Vasilyev was right, though. She could start screaming at any second.
With some difficulty, Vasilyev and Grishkov maneuvered the guard’s body through the door of the compartment, and out the door of the car into the small metal platform connecting the two train c
ars. A nearly full moon cooperated with a bend in the track to show them an oncoming trestle about a kilometer ahead.
Vasilyev sighed and muttered, “About time we had a break.” He grabbed the guard’s shoulders and Grishkov grabbed his legs, and they began to swing the body back and forth. By the time the train reached the trestle they had built up plenty of momentum, and let the body go. It disappeared over the side of the trestle, but it was impossible to see whether the body had fallen in the water or instead on the riverbank.
As they walked back into the train car, Grishkov whispered, “A good thing there wasn’t much blood.”
Vasilyev nodded. “A combination of subsonic ammo and knowing where to shoot.”
They walked directly to the compartment with the defector and her escort.
Both were sitting silent and motionless as Vasilyev and Grishkov entered, closing the door behind them.
Vasilyev pointed at himself and said his name, and then Grishkov did the same. The Iranian man nodded and said, “Esmail.” After a pause, the woman pulled back her veil and said shakily, “Neda.”
Vasilyev turned to Esmail. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
Esmail shrugged. “The guard asked for our papers, looked at them and handed them back. He asked me why we were going to Mahabad, and I told him. Then, he asked Neda the same thing, and she said nothing.”
“I just froze,” Neda whispered.
“He kept asking her over and over, getting angrier each time she didn’t reply. That’s when he reached for his radio. You know the rest,” Esmail said.
Vasilyev nodded, turning to Neda. “Are you alright? Will you be able to continue this journey?”
Neda drew a deep breath. “I suppose I have to be. I certainly can’t go home.” She paused. “Didn’t anyone else in this train car hear what happened?
Won’t they report it?”
Vasilyev shook his head. “The woman who arranged this trip bought tickets to all the seats in this train car. A standard security precaution. Of course, sometimes unoccupied seats attract passengers, whether they have been paid for or not. That is why we picked this train with its relatively unpopular departure time, when it is usually less than half full. I checked after the train left Tehran, and we are the only ones who took seats in this car.”
Neda shivered. “Won’t anyone come looking for him before we get to Mahabad?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “It’s not impossible, but I don’t think it’s likely. These trains normally have a single conductor whose job is to take tickets, and a single guard. The train has already made the last scheduled stop before Mahabad, so I’ll bet the conductor is asleep somewhere. The train’s crew is unlikely to leave the locomotive. Given what we saw of the guard’s disposition, I can’t picture anyone looking for him to engage in conversation or a friendly game of cards.”
Neda frowned. “So who was he going to call on his radio?” she asked.
Vasilyev spread his hands. “I’m only guessing, but probably the train crew.
Since he was suspicious of you, he would have asked them to stop at the next station even though no stop is scheduled, and to radio ahead to have the police waiting there. Once the guard said even a few words to the crew on his radio it would have been over, since they certainly would have called police to meet us at the next station if his call suddenly cut off.”
Neda shuddered. “Once we reach Mahabad, though, won’t someone notice he’s missing?”
Vasilyev nodded. “It’s possible. My guess, though, is that once the train reaches Mahabad his job is done. After a thirteen hour ride I’m sure he gets a chance to sleep before he does another trip. With luck, he won’t be missed before we’re long gone.”
Grishkov bit back the observation that immediately occurred to him — unless they’d missed the water, and his body was in full view on the banks of the Zarrineh River. He doubted it would help calm Neda.
Neda frowned and asked, “So we just carry on, exactly as planned?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “I can’t think of anything better. Did the woman you met at our Embassy, Alina, strike you as capable?”
Neda nodded.
Vasilyev smiled. “Well, you don’t know us, but have some faith in her.
This is her plan, and I think it’s a good one. We will soon have you on your way out of Iran.”
It was obvious to all of them that Neda was far from convinced, but finally she nodded, and Vasilyev said no more. At least she appeared to have recovered from her initial shock at the killing of the guard.
Now, Vasilyev thought, we just have to hope she won’t freeze again at the wrong moment.
Chapter Eleven
Mahabad, Iran
Grishkov and Vasilyev both wore caps, which provided some protection from the sun as well as helping obscure their faces. Especially when the brim was pulled aggressively low, as Grishkov was now doing. “I almost miss the Vladivostok winter,” he declared.
When Vasilyev’s only answer was a smile, Grishkov shrugged and smiled back. “OK, I’ve gone too far.”
Making their way through the crowd milling outside the Mahabad train station, they both simultaneously tried to keep an eye on Neda and Esmail walking ahead and look for the bus station, which was supposed to be nearby.
Esmail had said he knew the way, and it turned out he’d been telling the truth. Within a few minutes they were in a line that though long, moved quickly.
Once they reached the head of the line all Vasilyev has to say was
“Naqadeh,” and hold up two fingers to be handed two bus tickets in return for the Iranian rials he placed on the counter.
Grishkov had kept track of Neda and Esmail, who were boarding a bus about a dozen meters away. A few minutes later Grishkov and Vasilyev had handed their bags to a porter for storage in the bus’ luggage compartment, along with a generous tip that saw they were placed there immediately instead of being “lost.” They found seats at the back from where they could observe Neda and Esmail in front of them, and would have time to react if the bus were to be boarded.
However, fortune was with them this time, and the only excitement was provided by an American action movie playing simultaneously on small flat screens mounted in the front and middle of the bus, which had been dubbed into Farsi. It was a low budget rip off of “The Terminator” featuring an evil robot with a human appearance that seemed to spend most of its time breaking into motel rooms to kill moderately attractive women. Grishkov had to work hard to suppress his laughter when the robot decided to deal with dents in his metal body caused by police bullets with an iron that his latest victim had been using on clothes.
He also had to admire Vasilyev’s concentration, which though it never left Neda and Esmail avoided being obtrusive in a way that might be noticed by the other passengers.
The driver made good time, and they arrived at the bus station in Naqadeh just before the movie finished. As they exited the bus, Grishkov thought to himself that could help explain why such a poor quality movie had been chosen.
Who would complain about missing the ending?
Naqadeh, Iran
Esmail Mohsen climbed out of the bus just ahead of Neda once it arrived at Naqadeh. The cursed Russians were seconds behind them, as they had been during the entire trip. Esmail had spent nearly every minute since this job had started thinking about how to get rid of them, or to call his cousin with the border guard.
The Russians weren’t stupid. The first thing they did when he arrived for a job was to search him for a cell phone, and he’d had no chance to slip away to get one.
Esmail also couldn’t wave down a passing policeman. Not only might the Russians shoot him the way they had the train guard, something almost as bad might happen — he might not get paid. He had to negotiate a price and place to hand over the woman and the Russians, and for that he was counting on his cousin’s help.
Esmail wasn’t going to betray the Russians out of patriotism. The only thing he was loyal to was money
, and so far the Russians had paid well. This job would be the most lucrative yet.
Still, Esmail was sure his own government would pay even better. Nobody had told him who the woman was, and he hadn’t asked. But the fact that for the first time ever two Russians were going with him on a job told him Neda was someone very special.
Fortunately, he had planned ahead. Soon, Esmail thought, soon I will have my chance.
En Route to Nalous, Iran
Grishkov and Vasilyev sat in the back of the rented sedan, a white Peugeot 405. Alina had chosen it not only because it was large by Iranian standards, but due to its status as one of the most commonly seen cars throughout the country. Manufactured since 1987, it had been retired in France a decade later, but not in Iran where thanks to a lack of options caused by sanctions production continued. Though Chinese manufacturers were now giving Peugeot stiff competition, a Peugeot 405 was still as close to camouflage as you could get on Iranian roads.
Esmail was driving, since he knew where they would be leaving the car.
Neda sat silently beside him. Vasilyev in particular was worried about her mental state, but Grishkov was not concerned. Unlike Vasilyev he was married, and his own wife had gone through worse. In his opinion, women were at least as tough as men, if given the chance to prove it.
The next stage of their journey, though, did concern Grishkov.
“Isn’t anyone going to complain when we don’t bring this car back, and maybe report it to the police?”
Esmail answered, shaking his head. “No. Alina has an arrangement with the rental car manager. She gives him far more than the regular rental price, which goes right into his pocket. I’m sure he suspects that the cars are used for smuggling. But as long as the cars come back undamaged, and so far they have, the money is enough reason to play along.”
Grishkov frowned. “But how will the car get back to the dealer?”
Esmail smiled. “Alina did not tell you that part, because I handle it myself.