Black turned the Colonel’s head to face Brady. For a second he thought Brady was going to let him have it point blank and got ready to jump clear. But Brady had a better idea. He scooped up the file and calmly started leafing through it as he crouched down beside the Iranian.
‘Where did you think you were headed just now, Sir? Not many places left to go out there.’
The breath hissed between the Colonel’s teeth as Blackburn pressed down on his head.
‘. . Pigs, bastards. .’
Brady kept his tone nonchalant.
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s us all over. You want to die now or co-operate and take us to your leader?’
‘You attack our defenceless people—.’
Brady slammed the file down on the Colonel’s head and screamed:
‘Time’s up, Colonel! Where’s Bashir?’
‘Okay; okay. Not here.’
‘Where then?’
25
Niavaran, Northeast Tehran
They had spotted the US ground forces from their position in the hills, so Dima’s team made their descent into Tehran from the northeast, down the Lashakark Road, which led straight to the Police Park. The streets were littered with rubble and tiles. Some had been blocked altogether by fallen buildings. Every Rakhsh APC the Iranian Army owned seemed to be on the streets, each one wearing hastily-applied PLR markings.
‘I finally figured out what’s different.’
‘Apart from devastation and insurrection?’
‘No traffic. Used to be the world capital of traffic jams. A man once died at the wheel of his car. No one realised for two hours.’
The city was now almost empty. Those the earthquake had failed to scare away had been prised from their homes by the bombardment. In the main shopping streets, looters had tried taking advantage of the chaos: pavements were littered with TVs, dishwashers and other goods, pulled out in triumph and then abandoned, for lack of means to transport them. The Peykans were such an effective disguise they proved to be a magnet for desperate stragglers hunting for transport. They kept their AKs prominently displayed to discourage car-jackers as they made their way to Amara.
Kroll radioed from the second car.
‘
As they closed in on Amara’s street, the air filled with the sound of AA fire, followed by the shriek and thud of a massive shell.
‘Great. Uncle Sam is homing in. Let’s get this done.’
Kroll radioed again.
‘
The house was surrounded by gardens and a high wall, but the street gates were wide open. Shutters and security grilles protected the windows. Gregorin and Vladimir made a full circuit of the perimeter wall and reported the area quiet. Dima called Amara again.
‘How do you know you can trust her?’ hissed Vladimir, as they approached the door.
‘I don’t.’
At what precise moment Dima realised his mistake, he couldn’t remember. He believed he could trust Darwish, but at a time of chaos allegiances can change by the hour. He could have set them up. Amara could have lost her nerve, aroused her husband’s suspicion or even tipped him off. If he was honest, he knew it was high risk to the point of madness, but so was trying to find a bomb in a quake-damaged city under siege.
They stopped about five metres from the door. It opened a crack, and then wider. Dima gestured to the others to wait until he could see Amara clearly. She was shaking and tearful, which was to be expected, but otherwise she didn’t move. He looked at her, trying to work out what was wrong. She just stood there, clutching the edge of the door for support. Then after a few seconds she beckoned him forward. The light inside the entrance hall was coming from the right and it was the movement of the shadow she was standing in that made his mind up for him.
Without raising it from his hip, he squeezed off a short burst from the AK. He hoped his aim was as good as it used to be, so the shots would panic whoever was behind the door into thinking she’d been hit. The slugs would have to skim the air just above her head, close enough for the shock wave to blast her right back through the hallway.
They fanned out on either side of the door, ready for a response. Gazul Halen was a man who would shoot first and think later, if at all. Darwish was right. The PLR’s Chief of Intelligence — there was an inappropriate title for you — leapt into the doorway brandishing an Uzi like an actor in a cheap TV movie. He sprayed the empty driveway just long enough for Dima to get a fix, so he could put a bullet neatly into his forearm, which travelled on and hit the weapon as well.
The Uzi jumped out of Gazul’s hand. As he convulsed on the floor Dima launched himself forward, slamming one boot down on his injured hand and kicking the Uzi away with his other.
‘Gazul Halen? Nice of you to have us over.’
He thrust the muzzle of his AK hard into the prone man’s groin.
‘We’re in somewhat of a hurry so we won’t bother with tea this time. The Russian government wants its nuke back.’
He glanced at where Amara had ended up. She wasn’t moving. He nodded to Gregorin to go and check.
Gazul writhed around like a gored bull, rage, dismay and agony sweeping over his features like bad weather. Dima kept his foot on his hand.
‘We want Kaffarov as well. You’re going to take us right to them.’
Gazul seethed and hissed. Eventually he managed a response.
‘Fuck you.’
Vladimir put his boot on his good hand.
‘No, you’re not going to be doing any fucking. You’re going to watch while we each fuck your wife — alive or dead. Or you can take us to Kaffarov. Can you work out the better option?’
Vladimir leaned on the hand a bit harder. Dima had seen this many times over the years: a man, cornered, nowhere to go but surrender, no options and nothing to bargain with, his brain jammed in pride mode, unable to do the sensible thing. Men who held high positions, who were used to controlling others by fear, were the worst: cowards one and all. He glanced at Amara, who was still motionless.
Gradually the seething and the hissing stopped. Gazul’s bottom lip started to quiver and the tears of rage turned into tears of self-pity and fear. His face was pathetic as he looked up at Dima and nodded.
‘Okay.’
26
Both Peykans had been great team players, but they knew that one of them would have to be sacrificed.
‘Really they should be allowed to draw straws,’ suggested Kroll.
Dima, binding Gazul’s wrecked hand, rolled his eyes.
‘They’re cars, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Where I come from, we say a car is a man’s best friend.’
‘That’s because you ate all the dogs. Get on with it, will you?’
