‘Goodbye old friend.’ Kroll patted the hood as Gregorin and Vladimir climbed in. They had volunteered to hunt down a Rakhsh APC.
‘A nice clean one: PLR markings, no punctures, and while you’re at it get the crew’s uniforms. Remember to strip them off
Vladimir batted Dima’s instructions away.
‘We have actually done this before — Dad.’
Fifteen minutes later a Rakhsh APC screeched into Amara’s drive. Out stepped Gregorin and Vladimir in full PLR battledress.
‘Taxi for Mayakovsky party.’
‘That was quick.’
He patted his new steed.
‘Rakhsh means stallion.’
‘Well, you live and learn.’
To Dima’s relief, Amara was now conscious. Dima’s aim was still good enough to have left her with no more than a scorch mark and a small bald patch on her crown. He prepared her a shot of morphine: it would serve the double purpose of dulling the pain and calming her fears. Whether she had tipped her husband off or been found out, they didn’t know. It shouldn’t have mattered: they had got what they needed, but Dima had an obligation to her father.
He laid her on a couch by the grand staircase. She was still terrified and tearful, clutching the wound on her head.
‘I have to leave you here for a while. But don’t worry: it’s just a surface wound. It will hurt a bit because of the number of blood vessels in the scalp, but it’s not serious, okay? If and when we find what we are looking for and get out in one piece, we’ll take you home to your father. .’
Her face changed from terror to self-pity, contorted into rage, in an echo of her husband. She smacked Dima hard across the face. ‘You shit. Bastard. My father, he’s a prick as well. He always had it in for Gazul, never paid the dowry and now he’s turned my beautiful man against me with his scheming. I hope he dies. I hope the house falls on him in the earthquake and crushes him to death.’
He touched the side of his face, which was stinging with pain.
‘Okay, well, I’m sorry if I’ve interfered with your marriage, I’m just trying to stop a nuclear war.’
‘You men, always excuses. You expect me to believe that? Get out of my house, you scum! Now!’
He stuck in the hypodermic.
27
Central Tehran
The Metropolitan Bank pre-dated most of the buildings around it. And unlike them it appeared to be unscathed by either the quake or the bombardment. In fact, it had been built with the express intention of withstanding a nuclear attack. Whether the architects had designed it to contain a nuclear warhead was another matter. Gazul, who was proving a lot more co-operative than his wife, told them that in the event of an attack Al Bashir’s emergency plan was that only he and his closest aides would take refuge there.
From the forecourt of the building next door, the Iranian Federation of Enterprise and Commerce, a PLR T-60 tank was moving into position. They surveyed the scene from inside the Rakhsh.
‘I’ve always wanted to rob a bank,’ mused Vladimir.
‘In the middle of a war?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gregorin, ‘it creates a diversion.’
The plan was breathtakingly unsophisticated. Dressed as the PLR, Dima, Vladimir and Zirak would rush up to the bank with the injured Gazul, shouting for them to open up. The sight of their wounded Chief of Intelligence ought to be enough to get them through the door. Once in, they would don their facemasks, lob in a few cans of teargas and get working.
It went like a dream — almost. They hurried past the tank crew, straight up to the door. Gazul obliged them with a plea to be let in. As soon as his name was heard one of the huge bronze doors swung open. Dima expected the next part would be messy: whoever was in their path would have to be neutralised. The place had to be cleared of personnel for the bomb to be found. But none of them, not even Gazul, anticipated what was waiting for them behind the bronze doors.
At least a hundred soldiers and civilians, maybe more, had taken refuge in the lobby. It was a sea of khaki, interspersed with the bright colours of women and children. How could four of them get the better of this lot? All hopes of a stealth operation melted away. Even if they drove most of them out through the doors and shut themselves in, they would still have the tank to contend with. All of this was running through Dima’s mind as he surveyed the crowd. But then he fixed on a familiar face. He couldn’t put a name to it. Later he would remember that it was Hosseini.
Dima pressed the point of his knife a little further into Gazul’s back.
‘Warn them there’s a bomb in the vault — be very, very convincing.’
Gazul obliged. ‘There’s a bomb in the vault below! Run! Run now!’
No one moved. Some of the men turned and looked at each other. Dima shouted,
‘Do as he says! Open the doors and get everyone out! It could go off any second!’
Zirak and Gregorin held the doors open, urging people forward. Gradually they started to take the hint. A trickle rapidly became a torrent and then there was a furious crush around the doors, which spilled out on to the forecourt. Dima watched, keeping a firm hold of Gazul, the point of his knife close to his kidneys. Hosseini came towards them, saluted Gazul and narrowed his eyes at Dima. Hosseini was a former student of his — one of the zealots who had joined the Revolutionary Guard’s own Intelligence Unit: Iran’s Gestapo.
Hosseini pulled his gun from its holster and took aim.
‘They’re not PLR, Sir. These men are Russians.’
28
Downtown Tehran
Brady drove, with Blackburn in the rear, Campo on the other side, and the Colonel in between, giving directions. He perched on the edge of the seat, head bent forward because of the zap strap which bound his wrists behind him.
‘Jafari? You sure that’s your name?’
‘You shitting us, Colonel, you will surely die. Comprendez?’
Jafari, his pride all that was left, nodded slowly. Brady radioed for an ID check and it came back positive. Pumped with the excitement of snaring the HVT, Campo wouldn’t shut up.
‘Why does Al Bashir hole up in a bank? Does he think he’s going to bribe us with his shitty little rials? I mean if I was him I’d be on the next plane to Saudi or Yemen or some other safe haven.’
‘Can’t see why we don’t just drop a two thousand pounder on it. Smokin’ Bashir would solve a whole heap of trouble, ’stead of having him winding up on trial somewhere shakin’ his dink at us.’
Black turned to the Colonel.
‘How big is this bank?’
He looked at them scornfully.
‘Very. The biggest in Iran.’
‘Great, so we have to search every room and floor. .’
Brady chipped in. ‘Yeah right, Colonel, you gonna narrow it down for us?’
No answer. Brady slammed on the brakes and turned to Black. ‘Use a knife if you have to. Cut his dick off and make him eat it.’
Jafari shook his head, nodding emphatically at the ground.
‘In vault.’
Brady drove on, taking to the sidewalk to avoid a massive rift running across an intersection. It had half swallowed a bus.
‘Sure fucked this place up, Al Bashir or no.’
‘Back in ’03 they had a quake killed forty thousand.’
