Exit wound, p.22
Exit Wound, page 22
‘Until some other fucker takes his place.’ I pulled the cord to close my day-sack and spotted a nylon shopping bag close by where I’d found her.
‘It’s not just the military who are killed by these things. People who have no say, who are just trying to get on with their lives – the ones everybody forgets. That’s why I’m here. We have to stop—’
‘For fuck’s sake, shut up. Here . . .’ Her bag contained the same sort of stuff I had in mine: cash, passport, camera, burqa. No weapon. I threw it at her. ‘You come in via the university?’
She nodded and pulled out her burqa.
‘We’d better get out the same way.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Your hotel.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You throttle the life out of me, treat me like a silly little girl who doesn’t know shit, and then expect me to invite you back to my room?’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘They moved me out to the airport. I’m getting thrown out of the country tomorrow. They want me on the first flight out. I’m on the seven thirty to Astana, then Moscow – they’re in such a hurry to get rid of me they’re not even sending me back to Russia. They put security in the lobby so I just took the rear exit. What’s the worst they could do if they catch me sneaking back in with you? Threaten to throw me out in the morning?’
The worst they could do was a whole lot worse than that, but I didn’t think now was the right time to mention it.
86
We sat in the back of the cab in our burqas, me playing the big, ugly sister. There wouldn’t have been a lot to talk about even if we’d both sounded local. We were on the outskirts of the city, in the glow of cheap orange streetlights and what looked like a shanty town thrown together with cardboard, wriggly tin, mud and straw. Dogs skulked and pissed on the pavement. Kids in rags played in the doorways.
Agnetha wore a plain band of gold on the third finger of her right hand. In Russia, that meant she was married. If she’d worn it on the same finger of the left, it would have sent a clear signal that she was divorced or widowed. Either her husband was at home doing a little light housework or she wanted people like me to stop bothering her.
It hadn’t taken us long to get out of the minaret and sneak past the drivers. They were now focused on the Iranian answer to Friday Night with Jonathan Ross. All we could hear was canned laughter, punctuated from time to time by giggles beneath the blankets.
The square was teeming again as women poured out of the mosque. We dusted ourselves down as best we could before taking our places in the crowd. We headed up to the main and jumped into a taxi – a Peugeot 305 with a sunroof, air-conditioning and a nice blue digital dash. Just right for the ladies.
Agnetha gave directions. Her Arabic was really good. These lads weren’t Arabs, but they understood her. After all, their religion was inseparable from the language. They’d known it since they were kids.
I felt my eyes beginning to droop in the comfort of the rear seat and the cocoon-like security of the burqa. I shook myself awake and tried to make sense of the M3C/Iran/Taliban triangle.
The Taliban had the drugs and the cash to pay for the weapons.
It didn’t add up.
Why did Altun need the gold?
Why would a guy who was so high up the food chain organize a robbery and use a Russian plane to cart away the proceeds? Why would the mullahs turn a blind eye? They weren’t that mad.
And then I realized that the deal wasn’t being brokered by the Iranians at all. Agnetha was wrong. They had nothing to do with it.
So what was Altun up to? And why did he need the gold?
I was going round in circles. I had to cut away. The answer didn’t matter. It didn’t do anything for me right now, and it couldn’t affect what I was going to do.
87
We were approaching the airport road. Red and white lights blinked on top of the towers. The terminal glowed brilliant white. It looked like a recently landed UFO.
The Peugeot drove towards Agnetha’s hotel. Beyond the flags in the driveway, the lobby was another beacon of white neon. A bored-looking guy in a uniform slouched at the reception desk. Agnetha asked the driver to go round to the back. I checked my watch. It was coming up to eleven.
She paid off the driver and pretended to look for her car. The blue glow of the dash faded into the night.
She led me to the steel fire escape. I took off my burqa and bundled it into my day-sack but she kept hers on. I was quite pleased about that. The bruises on her neck would be developing nicely. She was halfway up the stairs before she realized I wasn’t following. ‘Aren’t you coming up?’
I shook my head. ‘The room’s probably bugged.’
‘But I—’
‘You online?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever I find out, I’ll let you know. What name am I looking for?’
‘Anna Ludmilova. Shall I spell it?’
‘I’ll find you.’
I headed out of the car park, my day-sack on my back. I broke into a jog to get out of the light and make some distance. Being alone had never been a big deal for me. It was simpler than surrounding yourself with people the whole time, and I’d sometimes confused it with a kind of freedom. But I’d have given almost anything just then to have Lord Dex of Cards and his Hallowe’en torch beside me, and to be able to take the piss out of Lord Ken of t’Pit for firing up his thousandth roll-up of the day.
This might be a crusade for Agnetha, but it was a whole lot more than that for me. I reckoned I’d already discovered enough to keep Julian happy for a day or two. I’d done what I’d been asked to do. Now I was going to find Altun and his mates again. And then I was going to kill them.
It wouldn’t stop any missile deal; it might not even delay it. It wouldn’t get the Taliban flapping or make the world start smelling of flowers. But it would make me feel a fucking sight better.
88
I was pumping the Timberlands as fast as I could, but the Air France 747 overtook me with ease as it taxied down to the bottom of the strip about two hundred to my left and prepared for take-off.
I’d kept on the Imam Khomeini International Airport approach road so that I could move faster. I was soaked with sweat, but my head was clear. The M3C terminal was on the far side of the complex. Behind me, a never-ending stream of traffic roared along the main.
The 747 lumbered down the runway and climbed into the air. I turned off the tarmac and stumbled across a stretch of rubble-strewn sand, keeping out of the stark white light that separated the airport from the desert.
I picked my way past a spaghetti junction of rusty metal pipes and interconnecting valves that were due to bring water into or take waste out of IKIA at some point in Majid’s glorious future. A single-track road curved around the edge of the airfield. I turned onto it and speeded up again. My throat was dry. My hair was plastered against my face. The day-sack pounded my back with every step. I felt like a squaddie again, on a tab. Switch off, head down and make distance. It’s what you do once you’re there that counts, so get there fast.
Two more airliners took off as earthworks, bulldozers and heavy plant sprang up around me. Three hundred metres of concrete and wasteground separated me from the perimeter fence as I skirted the end of the runway.
I stopped and got out Ali’s binos as another jet taxied down towards me. Either there wasn’t a night-flying ban in Iran, or nobody gave a shit. I focused for a moment on the taxiing jet. A line of passengers settled into their window seats and reached for their safety instructions or gazed in silent wonder at the monument to the ’79 revolution. Then I panned right until I found the M3C hangar in the semi-darkness opposite. It was around two hundred metres away.
The Dassault was on the pan. No lights, no generator on the go. But there was a dull glow from the centre of the building. I scanned the windows, but the blinds were down.
Still keeping to the shadows, I made my way round towards the turning circle outside the front entrance and raised the binos again. There was no visible security; no barriers, no checkpoints and no vehicles.
I could see a darkened reception area, accessible via big glass front doors. The building straddled the perimeter fence. The only way to get airside was to go through it.
I cut across the wasteground, past a seemingly random scattering of abandoned concrete sewage pipes, sections of rusted fencing and deep caterpillar tracks. I needed a good OP, close enough to see anyone who arrived; close enough to grip them before they had any time to react.
I slowed. I didn’t have to gulp great lungfuls of air any more, but the sweat started to pour big-time now I was cooling down. I hated this bit. Every stitch of my clothing was starting to stick to me. I knew the sand would, too, once I’d found somewhere to hide up.
I was about a hundred away from the M3C set-up. It was as close as I could go. There was no cover from here on in. I crawled into one of the sewage-pipe sections to sort myself out.
I eased off the day-sack and leant my wet back against the concrete. All sorts of grit and giant spider’s webs immediately found their way down my neck and into my shirt. I took a couple of deep breaths and hoped my body heat would dry everything off before dawn.
Using the ambient light from the main terminal, flashing tower beacons and yet another aircraft taxiing down the runway, I got out the mobile and powered it up. It was just after 0300.
Julian needed to know about the missile deal and the dark flares, but my finger hesitated over the keys. It didn’t want to call. Right now I was in control. If I talked to him there was a strong chance I’d have to disobey a direct order. I was a hundred per cent sure his way of dealing with this situation wasn’t going to be the same as mine. I’d fucked over enough people on this job already. I didn’t want to add him to the list.
I started to put together a text. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to call me in, but I needed to let him know what was happening, just in case I fucked up and joined Red Ken and Dex a whole lot earlier than I’d planned.
SA-16 seeker has NO fault.
It now has ANTI-DARK FLARE CAPABILITY.
I also told him about the Taliban, M3C, Altun and their deal.
But don’t know where the gold fits in.
I felt a gentle breeze as I crawled out of the pipe in search of a satellite signal and a weapon. Minutes later my fingers closed around a metre-long section of steel tubing that was just what I’d had in mind.
89
Thursday, 7 May
0535 hrs
A sliver of sunlight edged above the eastern horizon. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of it burst through. Birds sparked up and punctuated the quiet moments between take-offs and landings. If Altun turned up I’d wait until he’d dropped off his new best Taliban mate, then take him and his BG on with the steel. The BG would be first: I wanted his weapon. Then I’d drop Altun with it. With any luck he’d take some time to die. If he didn’t turn up, I’d take the BG and persuade him to tell me where Altun was. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would do. And when it came to choices, I was running on empty.
I never thought too much about dying. My most philosophical view on the matter had always been: fuck it. If I was too slow or too unlucky today I was dead, so anything else was a bonus. It had always been that way. Maybe that was why I’d always been the one to put my hand up and volunteer. Fuck it, so what? It’ll be a laugh . . .
Laughs had always been in pretty short supply where I came from, and I guess the situation I was facing right now wasn’t so funny. But I’d treat myself to a good one when Red Ken and Dex gave me the thumbs-up from whatever cloud they were hanging around on.
There was movement at the rear of M3C. Three guys in dark blue boiler-suits headed for the Falcon and hooked up the generator. Its engine kicked in and lights flickered on inside the aircraft. A set of steps unfolded, linking the cabin to the concrete so the ground crew could jump inside and do whatever ground crews did at times like this.
Two guys in short-sleeved white shirts and ties, each carrying a black air-crew case, strolled up to the 7X and disappeared inside. Shouldn’t be long now.
The sun heaved itself over the horizon to my right and threw the mountains on the other side of the city into sharp relief. A pair of headlights came up the road, fast. I raised the binos. It was a Merc, trailing a dust-cloud, covering the distance in a few short minutes that I’d taken hours to cross.
I steadied the binos. The sky was still too dark and the car too far away for me to be able to see whether or not its antenna was bent, but I knew where I was placing my money. It pulled into the turning circle and the passenger door began to open.
I pulled the steel tube from behind me.
It was two-up in front. This was going to be hairy.
As the vehicle stopped, the BGs jumped out. Both were in sleeveless white shirts with weapons on their belts. Tattoo had been in the passenger seat. I couldn’t be totally sure, but the driver looked like the second loadie from the Dubai airstrip. They opened a rear door each.
Altun and the Taliban stepped out onto the concrete and fastened their jackets. They didn’t talk, or give the muscle a second glance. They headed towards the terminal. Tattoo went for the boot and his mate rushed past them to hold open one of the big glass doors. The Taliban was still dressed in last night’s suit. Altun’s was grey, and the shirt had a buttoned-down collar. They disappeared inside. Tattoo followed with two small overnight bags and a prayer mat, and the door closed behind him.
Time to move. I gripped the steel rod and crawled out of the concrete pipe. Get to the terminal, wait to see who came out, and go for it. My head was completely clear, my heart-rate even.
Another vehicle approached the M3C terminal from my right. It was also a Merc. These boys hadn’t spent too much time at the Paykan dealership. I eased myself back into the pipe as it pulled up alongside the first. This time no one jumped out to open the rear door. It did that by itself, and a pair of short dumpy legs appeared.
Spag’s light cargos and blue fleece strained at the waist as he clambered out. There was no mistaking the fat fuck.
A thousand thoughts raced through my head in a nanosecond, none of them good.
90
The Dassault’s engines had started to whine as soon as the second Merc had spat out its passenger and he’d waddled into the terminal.
I wrenched the Nikon out of my day-sack. I still couldn’t believe it.
Spag was dead – I’d seen him killed.
No, I hadn’t. I’d just seen his body. I never actually saw him go down . . .
I’d seen Red Ken and Dex go down; seen them take a whole mag each. I thought I’d seen Spag get the same treatment, but he’d never been directly in my line of vision. There had been a gap of a few metres between Red Ken’s body and his. As soon as he saw Spag run out of the arc of fire, Red Ken must have realized it was a stitch-up and tried to drop him.
Four bodies came out of the terminal airside and headed for the Falcon.
I rattled off a series of pictures of Altun, the Taliban and Spag sharing a joke, then some more as they walked up the aircraft steps. Tattoo’s sidekick checked the bags were on board before joining them. The stairs were sucked into the fuselage and the aircraft headed off down the runway.
I scrolled back through the pictures. They were all in focus, and I knew without a doubt that I was looking at Spag and the second loadie, the one who had hosed Red Ken down.
I got out the sat comm and powered it up. ‘Jules, stand by, get a pen.’
‘Nick, listen, I want—’
‘In a minute. You ready?’
‘Nick—’
‘Mate, listen to me . . .’
The roar of the three engines drowned whatever he was trying to say.
‘That’s the Falcon, Jules. It’s just left IKIA. Altun is on board. So is the Taliban and Spag. Spicciati is alive. The fuck is part of the deal. Track it, tell me where it’s going and I’ll get there, find out what’s happening. Just find out where it’s going for me.’
There was a pause.
The Falcon’s engine noise faded.
Finally Julian spoke. ‘I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘I know that Spicciati is alive.’
This was not a good day out for Julian. I could feel his pain.
‘I’m sorry, Nick. This is where it ends. I’ve been ordered to stand you down. It’s been taken away from us. Stand down – acknowledge that, Nick.’
‘You pissed or what? We don’t know if the gear is in-country yet. And if it isn’t, we don’t know where it is or how they’re getting to it. I’ll find that out, mate. Follow the plane and I’ll get there and stop this shit. What if our lads get dropped out of the sky tomorrow? That’s all right, is it?’
‘No, it’s not.’ Julian sounded as pissed off as I was. ‘Nick, I can do nothing here. It’s not just you being stood down. It’s both of us.’
‘He still CIA? You telling me it was some fucked-up Ollie North-style double-dealing CIA bullshit that got Dex and Ken killed?’
The line stayed dead for a few seconds.
‘Jules! Is he?’
‘Roger that. He never got out. He’s been undercover for years. I’m sorry. We didn’t know. No one knew.’
I felt like I’d been hit by a sledge-hammer. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘Nick, if you decide to go ahead and do whatever it is you plan to do, it’s against my direct order. I will no longer answer your calls and I will track your sat comm. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Acknowledged, I’m stood down.’
