The DG leaned back and swivelled his chair to face the grey morning beyond the windows. 'Is he a brave man?'
'It's nothing to do with being brave. Don't you understand that? It's about torture.'
There was a light knock at the door. The Director General swung to face it. Bloody little Houghton, and not waiting to be called in.
'I don't know why you bother to knock, Ben. What the hell is it?'
'Sorry to interrupt, sir. Something rather puzzling has come up. Personnel are asking for guidance. FCO's been on.
They've had a little cretin from the Customs round, asking to see Matthew Furniss.'
'Customs? I don't believe it… What in heaven's name for?'
'It's someone from the Investigation Division, sir. Quite a serious outfit, I gather. They have established that Mattie was guarantor to a young Iranian exile now resident in the UK…'
'So, what is he, out of date with his renewal?'
There was a blandness about Benjamin Houghton that could infuriate the most high and the most mighty. 'Not as serious as that, sir. Just that he's been trafficking in heroin, quite a lot of heroin by the sound of it.'
Parrish's voice crackled into Park's ear.
'April One for April Five, April One for April Five.'
'April Five to April One, come in. April Five to April One, come in.'
'What's moving, April Five?'
'April Five to April One, be busier in Highgate bone yard.
Tango One is still inside the location. We've done well. We're just inside the mews entry. We've got a great lens view on the front door. Harlech is in the street, he's squared the meter maid. There's a back entrance to the house, just an alley, Token's on that. Tango One's jeep is in the alley.'
'Sounds fine. You ready for the goodies?'
'Ready, April One.'
' O K, April Five… The 5 series is registered in the name of Jamil Shabro, Iranian born, age 57, address as per your location. But he's choice. Vehicle Registration has a cut out on that number. We had to go through the Met. Got the bum's rush from the plods, referred to Anti-Terrorist. Tango Four is on their list for security guidance.'
'What does that mean?'
'It means that Tango Four has got up the Ayatollah's nose.
Getting interesting, eh? Tango Four has security briefings from the Anti-Terrorist mob, varying his routes, that sort of chat. They say Tango Four is a devious crap artist, but he's got guts because he stands up at the drop of a hat and pitches the old aggro back at the Ayatollah.'
'So we just sit tight.'
'You just sit tight, April Five.'
It took more than one hour for the news to seep from Heathrow Airport to the offices of the Anti-Terrorist squad on the fifth floor of New Scotland Yard.
The IranAir flight, non-stop from London to Tehran, had taken off more than 40 minutes ahead of schedule, at 20 minutes before noon. The news came via the British Airports Authority to the armed police officers stationed at the airport and who watched over all incoming and outgoing flights of that airline. From them, the information was passed to the Special Branch officers on duty at Heathrow, and they in turn filed their report which was, after processing, sent on the internal fax to the Anti-Terrorist squad.
The fax finally landed on the desk of a Detective Sergeant.
It was bald, factual, related to nothing else. He thought of an aircraft taking to the skies, leaving behind more than a handful, he supposed, of furious passengers. Still, they'd mostly be Iranians. No one else would be fool enough to fly IranAir.
That made him smile. But he was a thorough man. He rang through to the Authority and asked if they had been given a reason for the new flight plan.
Operational reasons… what else? He asked if the plane were now actually airborne.
The Detective Sergeant hurried down the corridor to the office of his superior.
'The bloody thing's in French airspace now. I'd have ordered it held if it were still on the ground. If they're going early for 'operational reasons' then that says to me that they're carrying someone out, someone who's got to get clear. We're sitting on a bang, sir.
There were the usual photographs, silver-framed, of the old soldiers with their Shah of Shahs. There were gold embossed invitation cards to functions, all exile binges, most of them on which the hosts requiring the pleasure listed all their decorations and titles. There were volumes of Persian poetry, bound in calves' leather on a walnut side table. The interior could have been lifted straight from North Tehran, save for the picture window from knee height to the ceiling looking down on to the mews.
The daughter was upstairs and Charlie could hear the rattle of her cassette music from the floor above, and the wife was out shopping. Charlie was alone in the living room with Jamil Shabro.
'What's it for, Charlie?'
'Does it matter?'
'Too double damned right. You ask for a contact, you tell me why.'
'Pretty obvious. I have stuff, I want to dump it.'
'Don't be insolent, boy. Why?'
'What anyone trades for, money.'
'What do you want the money for?'
'I think that's my business, Mr Shabro.'
'Wrong. My business. You come to me, you want me involved, and I am involved if I send you to a dealer. I don't fuck about, Charlie. You give me some answers, or you go away empty,'
'I hear you.'
'Charlie… You're a nice boy, and I knew your father. I would have bet good money that you would not have begun to think about running heroin, and you end up at an old fucker like me. This old fucker wants to know why you want the money.'
Charlie said, 'I want the money to buy armour-piercing missiles. .. '
He saw Jamil Shabro's jaw fall.
'That way I can destroy those who murdered my family.'
He saw the widening of the man's eyes.
'When I was in Iran last week and the week before, I killed the executioner of Tabriz. On my previous visit I killed two Guards. There is still unfinished business.'
He saw the blood run from Jamil Shabro's face.
'When I have the money, when I have the armour-piercing missiles, I will go back inside Iran, and I will dedicate my life to the future of our country.'
'Charlie, you must be in love with death.'
'I love my country, Mr Shabro.'
Jamil Shabro's hands flexed together. There was the sweet smile of reason. 'I know about your family, Charlie, your father and your sister and your uncle, we all know about that.
We understand your outrage… but you are talking like a fool. .. '
'It's you who talk, Mr Shabro, and it's you who left. The Communists and the Democrats and the Monarchy Party, they all fucked up. They don't have the right to demand another chance. I do, my generation does.'
'I risk my life for what I believe, I have been told that by the police.'
'While I am inside Iran, Mr Shabro.'
Jamil Shabro walked the length of his living room. He disliked the boy for his arrogance, he admired the boy for his guts. For the first time in many years Jamil Shabro felt a small sense of humility, humility before the courage of Charlie Eshraq.
'I help you, you have my name, you go back inside, you are taken. When they interrogate you they will have my name.
What happens to me?'
