Monstrous nights, p.15
The Primary Objective, page 15
At ten on Sunday night, ahead of schedule, loading was completed. Once he had reported to Hanah, all he had to do was to wait for her confirmation to release the vessel. For Jamshid, it was a sleepless night. The Shimmering Star was the largest vessel in dock at that moment and he would have preferred that it had been able to set sail before his colleagues came into the office at the start of the working week. He certainly didn’t want to be asked too many questions about it. The approval came through at 08.30 on Monday morning, just as Jamshid had decided to meet Ravi for breakfast at the usual place instead of being at his desk. Steaming coffee and pastry in front of him, he called the harbourmaster to authorise the release before turning to his friend.
“Goodness, you look knackered and it’s only Monday,” Ravi said. “Burning the candle at both ends? Maybe I shouldn’t have introduced you to Mahta – she must be a handful! Seriously, mate, you should take it easy – go for a swim or, better still, go up to the Caspian for a bit of RnR for a few days. Better than popping pills. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
Jamshid’s mood had lifted in the preceding minute. He shared the joke. “I don’t know; I think I should go away, but I just can’t get the time. The board are asking more and more questions about our business projections in the coming year, and I’m having to go into the office on the weekend to do the extra paperwork.”
“Seems to me you’re starting to think you’re indispensable, just because you got that Yellow Sea deal away,” his friend replied.
“Oh, but I got another biggy away on Friday, this time to Myanmar,” he blurted.
“So, right now, I’m either way ahead of my targets or slightly behind, because I think the board are shifting the goal posts; that way they think they don’t have to pay me commission.”
“You aren’t making much space for your private life then? I hear from Mahta you met up last weekend.”
In that moment, he realised he had not given her a thought, such was his stress.
“Yes, we did, and it was great. I think she must be pissed off with me because I crashed my next date with her, which should have been yesterday. It’s all gone a bit quiet in that direction, so I guess I owe her a call, flowers and the rest.”
“What happened about those heavies you were telling me about last time? Were you being warned off for chatting up that gangster’s daughter in Tehran?” Ravi said, jokingly.
“Oh, that! Well, I think it shows I’m getting paranoid. I haven’t had a chance to think any more about it and no one’s reminded me,” he said. He changed the subject. “And what’s the latest medical drama from your place?”
“Not much really – been a quiet few days – an amputation, a shooting and a couple of liver transplants. I’ll tell you more when we both have more time. Let’s do something useful before the weekend when we can really talk. Squash? Golf?”
Glancing at his watch, Ravi didn’t wait for his friend’s reply. He headed for the door and disappeared into the morning rush.
Back home in front of the TV with day-to-day work matters put aside, Jamshid knew his priority was to mend what he expected to be his broken relationship with Mahta.
It took three calls before he succeeded in making contact. He thought it was his third message which had made the difference:
“Mahta, it’s me – Jamshid – again. Not only am I sorry I missed our date and didn’t let you know but then I realised I couldn’t even send flowers as I don’t have your postal address. Let’s get together, if only so you can see a grown man give a grovelling apology.”
She made him wait half an hour before sending a text.
“Rescheduled our missed meeting. Same time, same place. Sunday. Last chance.”
Jamshid smiled, clutched the phone to his chest and decided to take a shower.
Bob arrived at reception in the Four Seasons ten minutes ahead of schedule. To his surprise, Edwin and Ehat were ready and waiting, their bags left at the concierge desk.
“You are right to keep your kit here; it is the safest place. You can collect it when you get back. Let’s go. The car is right outside.” Bob strode out of the lobby, his guests in his wake.
Edwin and Ehat sat in the back of Bob’s white Toyota Corolla.
The journey to the airport was about forty-five minutes depending on traffic conditions. The drive took them out of town to the north-east, heading away from the coast past the Zaha Hadid-designed Heydar Aliyev Cultural Center, famous for its towering, flowing canopy. Then on to the Heydar Aliyev Expressway to the Heydar Aliyev Airport. If Edwin hadn’t noticed before, portraits of a suited, benevolent figure, left arm indicating a sense of direction, sun rising behind him, were on several billboards, especially around major highway intersections, captioned with the words “Founder of the independent Azeri state”. He had died back in 2003 and been succeeded by his son, but, to the casual visitor, he seemed very much alive. His portrait gave the impression of signposting them towards the airport but also his gaze made the viewer think he was watching them as they passed. Bob noticed Edwin looking at Aliyev’s image as he drove.
“It’s funny but you always see the grand old man when you are leaving, not when you arrive. He’s almost telling you to get out of town,” he laughed. “With an image like that, his son Ilham doesn’t have to try too hard to remind people who’s in charge.”
“What do people think about that?”
“Who knows? People don’t talk about it. They’re pretty well fed and have jobs. Only a few bother to read the papers and those that do probably don’t believe what they read anyway. So, although this is an autocracy, citizens are smart enough to realise they’ve done alright out of it.”
Ehat joined the conversation. “Surely people want to be free of the tyranny?”
“You don’t miss what you never had. I guess Aliyev was an improvement on Stalin,” Bob replied.
“You obviously know this place well,” Ehat persisted.
Bob smiled as he looked in the rear-view mirror, offering a mocking look suggesting the Uighur was too curious.
“I’ve been here five years now and run an adventure tour travel agency with my partner, Anya. I used to be in security in Donegal at the end of the Troubles, but got bored. I came here as part of a plan to see someplace different and probably start an Irish bar. Except, when I got here, I discovered they were all Muslims and I was unlikely to convince them to start drinking Murphy’s. I was about to move on when I met Anya, who was working as a tour guide. She showed me the sights and I’ve been here ever since, even learning a bit of the local lingo. Although not many know this country, we get a lot of punters in for the annual Grand Prix and international football games, so we get a steady flow of enquiries to go hiking. Outside the city there is some spectacular scenery and some pretty scary wildlife. In the spring, we always have to be careful of brown bears, who like coming off the mountains for the odd selfie and anything else which takes their fancy. In the winter, it’s the same with wolves. I have become part of a small but growing international community and as a result understand the importance of keeping the peace. Unfortunately, there is a lot of tension beneath the surface, but not directed at the government. Nationalism is a potent force in Azerbaijan and has led to many border conflicts. I am sure you have heard of Nagorno-Karabagh? The Azeris went to war with Armenia about it. It was a stalemate, but thousands were killed in the process. If you have caused or witnessed death, you learn peace is something you must nurture and value. It isn’t always a natural state of affairs and you need to work to sustain it. I joined Peace International so in some small way I could make a contribution, so this is great – a chance to help PI in the best way I know – running a trip.”
Edwin brought the conversation back the immediate situation. “I thought we would be joined by Anya,” he said.
“Given the tight timetable you set, she went ahead yesterday to get everything set up. She’s taken Mr Ehat’s stuff as well. She will meet us when we get there. When we took the others down south last time, we went in a truck. Took us six hours so that’s why we’ve chartered a plane today. We will fly down to a place called Minjivan, which is itself about an hour’s drive to the embarkation point.
“Anya has got a car and will take us first to a shooting range for Mr Ehat. After that we will go on to drop him off. Anya will return with us back to Minjivan for the flight back here in the morning, and if we’re lucky we’ll fit in a few hours rest before that, and maybe some hot food along the way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Edwin said, glancing at Ehat. The Uighur nodded and returned his gaze to the passing landscape.
They drove past the main entrance to international departures, instead taking the next left into an unmarked and unmade road with unkept hedging on either side. Bob slowed to avoid the worst of the potholes. Presently, they arrived at a small car park next to the two-storey General Aviation building at the side of one of the runways.
Once again, Bob led the way opening the trunk.
“Just before you go in, guys, I suggest you get changed into these camouflage suits and put on combat vests. I’m doing the same. After all, I don’t want us to look too conspicuous when we get there.”
Having changed in the toilets, the three came out into a reception area, where an unshaven, balding man, with a waistline that looked like it had benefitted from too many pastries, sat reading a paper in his shirtsleeves and slurping coffee loudly from a plastic cup.
“Privet, Sergei eto Bob.”
“Morning, Bob. As you have guests, we will talk in the Queen’s English.”
The dishevelled character picked up his not-inconsiderable frame and gripped the nearest hand, which happened to be Edwin’s.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, I am Sergei, your pilot. I was here an hour ago to do the pre-flight checks. All is good including the weather so we can expect a smooth trip. Come…”
He gesticulated for the others to follow him out of the glass door to an area with seven light aircraft. He pointed ahead.
“This is ours.”
Like everything else in Azerbaijan, even the plane looked unconventional, with its main propeller at the back, below a double tail fin. Either side of the nose were small stabiliser wings to complement the main span. It was painted sky blue, the standard colour of a Reliant Robin car, but with go-faster stripes on the fuselage.
“Do you know this plane? I don’t think you have these in England. It is a Yak-58. I think it is the best air taxi, cheap to run, easy to fly and will land on a kopek. Perfect for Minjivan. The engine is a Vedeneyev, one of the best, which powered half the Soviet Air Force.”
He stared momentarily at his shoes.
“At least it did when I was there,” he added.
For such a compact plane, it was surprisingly spacious inside, and Edwin estimated it could seat six in comfort. Once strapped in, Sergei fired the engine. Despite all the stated qualities of the plane, one thing it wasn’t was quiet. It was smelly too – a mixture of stale sweat and kerosene left over from the night before. It was clear the three would not be having much conversation en route.
Sergei Boroschenko wanted to look the part of a buccaneer, so he pulled a pair of mirrored sunglasses from his pocket and kissed his St Christopher necklace before adjusting his own seat belt. To those in the know, there could be no doubt on this evidence he was Russian. After a short exchange on the radio, the engine tensed and moved on to the runway. Alarmingly for the passengers, the Yak did not taxi to the far end but started its take-off halfway down. Despite the growing roar, it lifted nimbly into the air and started a steep climb, taking off over Baku and the nodding oil donkeys of the Caspian. Another surprise was the height at which the plane levelled off as it set its course to the south-west, flying just below the white cumulus clouds which pockmarked the sky.
In common with the part he was playing, Sergei held up his right hand to give a thumbs-up. He gesticulated to Bob to lean forward and shouted in his ear. Bob was nodding. Sitting back again, he recounted the message to Edwin.
“He wanted you to know that he is the best pilot in Baku and not scared of doing this trip. Yesterday, he did the same run for Anya and survived. This is because the flight passes over some small territories controlled by warlords. Now and again they like to launch missiles at aircraft just to let the government in Baku know they are still active. The best defence against this is to fly low so they can see us. Generally, they are not bothered about light aircraft, but helicopters or drones, which are run exclusively by the military, are normally targets. He says he will point out some of the riskier spots when we reach them. Oh, and, by the way, we are landing on a grass strip at Minjivan. Sergei hadn’t landed there before yesterday and says to warn you it may be a bit bumpy. But, above all, you shouldn’t worry because he is confident and used to fly MiG-15s for the Soviet Air Force.”
Edwin wasn’t sure if Bob had thought about the content of the message rather than focusing on providing a literal translation. It certainly had an impact on him. In that moment, Edwin realised he was now part of an active mission. Although he was charged with making difficult decisions about clandestine PI operations, this was the first time he had come face to face with the reality. His background in British politics had given him a theoretical understanding of international affairs and diplomacy, but this mission, the one he had personally authorised, was clearly the riskiest so far, even though his own contribution was small. Although he knew nothing about the pilot, the London office had a good file on Bob and his activities before and after joining PI. The Irishman came with high-quality references despite having some dubious links to a couple of proscribed groups in his home country and had been recommended for support operations across central Asia. He didn’t know much about his partner, Anya, except she was Azeri and had probably the best knowledge of the region out of anyone on the team. He decided to stop analysing the decisions he had taken in the past and keep his eyes and thoughts firmly on what was in front. He passed on his own limited version of Bob’s message to Ehat about the landing at Minjivan.
The flight plan took them south to Beylagan and Larijan before following the route of the main highway for the final twenty minutes. Sergei checked his navigation over Fuzuli but out of the corner of his eye spotted a flash on the ground. Immediately the plane banked to the right and gained altitude and speed, disappearing into cloud which buffeted the small prop. Despite the bright conditions, subsequently Edwin thought he experienced a flash, the sort you might see in an electrical storm or when a photograph was taken at night.
Sergei seemed to be muttering to himself as the plane banked again, this time to the left, dropping out of the cloud once more. Edwin felt the butterflies in his stomach. Sergei flicked a switch which appeared to be his radio transmitter and barked what seemed like an instruction and a series of numbers into the microphone. The turbulence stopped, the engine seemed to return to a more relaxed sound, the snaking path of the main highway appeared below on the left side and Sergei felt calm enough to signal to Bob he wanted a word.
“I said there are some dangerous motherfuckers down there who like to play with fireworks. Somebody must be a bit bored this morning and sent up a surface-to-air missile. Why, I don’t know – being visible in the sky is usually a good deterrent. I think it can’t have been a new weapon – I saw it being fired and it looked from the launch like an old type, like a mortar. They must think we’re fucking stupid. It’s easy to dodge. We weren’t going to fly into an aerial explosion they made. Also, I noticed they only fired once, just to let us know they are there.”
“Who are they?”
“Fuck knows – that’s part of the problem. I’ve told Baku the coordinates of the attack, so it’s up to them to find out. We’ve not far to go now, so I think all will be OK.”
Edwin tapped Bob on the shoulder.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much – this one’s a bit of a moaner; air traffic control told him to move because of a military jet in the area, then told him to go back as we were.”
“Did you see that burst of light back there?” Edwin asked, almost casually.
Bob decided to close down his concern.
“I’m not sure I did. That’s the problem of flying through cloud – its density changes all the time, creating flashes as well as turbulence.”
Ehat remained calm throughout, his thoughts clearly on something else altogether.
Looking down at the highway leading to Minjivan, Bob recalled driving the route a few days earlier. He was relieved to think he had not been stopped by the same people who had fired the missile and happier to know Anya hadn’t done the trip yesterday by road after their previous experience of the drive in the truck.
Whatever the incident had been, thought of it was soon dispelled as the topography changed from mountains to hills and a few green plains came into sight.
Sergei had kept his sunglasses on throughout but now, for the first time since take-off, he smiled and gestured again to Bob.
“We’re here now. Because we are landing on a field with no support on the ground, I will fly over Minjivan at low level so I can judge the wind speed and direction. I don’t think we will have a problem, as the visibility is fine, but we need to check. Get the others to check their belts.”
