Ultimatum, page 10
What did he see when he looked into that face on the screen? A beautiful twenty-something Iranian university student, with a privileged lifestyle? Yes, there was a hint of a smile on her face, as if she just knew that, somehow, normal rules would never apply to her. And, given her father’s position in the Revolutionary Guards, she was probably right. But what lay behind those dark, intense, almond eyes? What made her tick? Was it just boys, fashion, drugs and sex? That was certainly the inference he had taken from her personal intelligence profile, worked up by a joint team of targeting officers from MI6 and GCHQ. Surely there was more to her than that.
‘Mr Hall!’ A policeman was standing over him, dressed in a blue-grey uniform with a maroon beret and gold badge. ‘Please, this your passport.’ Luke took it from him as he got up, then grabbed his holdall and followed him out to the car park. The moment he stepped outside he felt the heat of the Gulf wash over him, like a warm bath, willing him to relax. A long black limousine with tinted rear windows and UAE Government Protocol number plates was waiting, the rear door held open for him by a uniformed driver. Luke swung himself in, pulled the door shut and sank onto the cream rear seat.
‘Good journey?’
A man in the front passenger seat was twisting himself round to face Luke and holding out his hand. ‘Faisal Rizki. I run Dubai Station.’ Short dark curly hair, an easy smile and a stain on his shirt collar, Luke noted. He had a slightly crumpled look about him, which Luke put down to his new-found status as a father.
‘Brendan Hall,’ Luke replied – got to keep living the cover, even with the home team. ‘Congratulations,’ he added.
Rizki raised an eyebrow, then laughed. ‘Oh, right, yes, fatherhood. It’s a mixed blessing, I can tell you. Right now all I want to do is sleep into next week!’ He patted the car’s upholstery. ‘Look, I’m sorry about all this. I know you’d have preferred something a bit more discreet but our Emirati friends insisted.’
‘Not a problem,’ Luke said, ‘but no one told me this was going to be a combined op.’
‘It isn’t. They just like to know what we’re up to on their turf. They’ll drop us off at your hotel and that’s it. Here comes the driver. We’ll talk more later.’
For forty-five minutes they drove in silence through a landscape of windblown sand and lines of pink oleander, whitewashed villas and towering construction cranes. Then Rizki turned to him once more. ‘Okay, this is your hotel coming up right here.’ Through the tinted rear windows Luke looked up at an enormous portico entrance, built in the Moorish style of North Africa, with water cascading from fountains and desert plants sprouting from well-tended beds. The wheels of their Mercedes had barely finished turning before the car doors were whisked open by liveried attendants wearing white gloves.
‘Welcome to the St Regis,’ they intoned in unison, and Luke almost had to fight to carry his bag, which he always insisted on doing. Rizki came round to join him as they moved into the shade of the hotel’s portico and the limousine purred away. Luke got his first proper view of MI6’s Dubai Station Chief, the man who had recruited and developed Black Run and whose shoes he was now being expected to fill. Rizki was shorter than him, but stockily built. He wore his sleeves rolled up, revealing a tangle of black hair across his forearms and a large gold signet ring.
‘Once you’ve checked in, ask them to show you down to the beach terrace,’ he said quietly, as they approached the reception desk. ‘It’s called Turquoise Bar or something like that. I’ll meet you there and brief you. Oh, and you’ll probably want to lose the jacket,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Makes you look like you’ve just stepped off a plane from London.’
Fifteen minutes later Luke was heading along a sandy path towards the beach. He made way for two Western girls in bikinis coming the other way, singing along together from shared iPhone earbuds. He had shed his London winter clothes in favour of chinos, loafers, a checked shirt, and a pair of sunglasses that Elise had made him buy. It was a contrived holiday look, yet still he felt overdressed and out of place.
He found Rizki sitting on the beach terrace in a rattan chair, facing out to sea, sipping what looked like iced coffee.
‘Feels wrong, doesn’t it?’ he said amicably, as Luke took a seat next to him. ‘You know, us being fully dressed and talking shop in a place like this.’ They looked towards the beach where a family were running into the waves, holding hands, laughing and screaming. ‘But there’s a reason we’re in this hotel.’
‘I’d guessed as much,’ said Luke, beckoning to a waiter to order himself an iced coffee. ‘So is this where …?’
‘It is. You won’t see them down here at the beach, though. They’re careful, Tannaz and her mother, Forouz. They may be out of Iran but this is still the Middle East and they’ll be on their guard.’
‘Keeping to their rooms?’
‘They checked in last night,’ Rizki continued, ‘and the only place they’ve been so far is the coffee shop. But that’s about to change.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In just under two hours’ time, at twelve noon, the exhibition opens at the Manaret Gallery. It’s only five minutes’ drive away, thirty-four exhibitors’ stands but only one of them is Iranian, which makes our job a little easier. Here.’ He produced a thin, glossy brochure from a portfolio on his lap. ‘Take a look at this.’
‘The Faridoon Gallery,’ Luke read from the cover. ‘Tehran, Paris, London …’ He leafed through it. ‘Looks pretty flash,’ he said.
‘Yes, there’s money there, all right,’ replied Rizki. ‘In fact there’s so much we’ve had to wade in to stop some rather overenthusiastic gentlemen from HM Customs and Excise poking their noses into it. Zamani’s wife is friends with the gallery owner – they went to the same art academy in Tehran in the nineties.’
‘Okay,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. How do we get me in front of Tannaz?’
‘We’ve been working on that. We’ve got someone inside the gallery you’re going to. I’ll airdrop his photo into your phone in a moment. He’ll introduce you, casually, to Tannaz and her mother when they’re on site. After that, it’s over to you and your charms. How good’s your Farsi?’
‘Very basic.’
‘Well, they speak perfect English but if you can manage a few phrases it will go a long, long way. Trust me.’ Rizki glanced around to make sure no one was watching. ‘But, first, I need to show you something.’ He slipped his hand into the portfolio on his lap once more and took out a sheaf of photographs contained in a clear plastic folder. ‘You might want to take a look at these, but I should warn you, they’re not pretty.’ He handed the folder to Luke. ‘This is Tannaz’s father’s handiwork … Take your time,’ he added.
Until that moment Luke had been enjoying himself. The morning sun was sparkling on the waters of the Gulf, the iced coffee was slipping down a treat and he found he was quickly warming to Faisal Rizki. Abu Dhabi was Easy Street compared to Armenia. But now, as he took in the full horror of the photographs, Luke was reminded of what he was there to do and why it mattered.
‘Christ …’ he murmured, as he turned to the second photograph, then the third.
He had seen plenty of dead bodies in his time, mostly in Afghanistan and Iraq, but these were in a different league altogether. The men had been tortured to death. There were burn marks, jagged incisions, missing teeth, bulging eyes, empty eye sockets, and the raw chafing weals made by a constriction placed around the neck. They had not died easy deaths. For a moment, the images brought back all the horror he had experienced in his own adult life: the Taliban bullet that had severed his finger, the deranged cruelty of a Colombian ‘chop house’, where he had nearly been dismembered by half-drunk narco-thugs, and then, more recent, indelible, Black Run’s slashed throat in that cold, bleak Armenian monastery. He pushed away the remains of his iced coffee.
‘You know the most disgusting thing about these photos?’ he said, when he had finally come to the last.
‘What’s that?’
‘Their quality. These are hi-res, Faisal. Somebody took their time over them. It’s almost as if they enjoyed their work.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they did. These were smuggled out of the political wing at Evin Prison, on the outskirts of Tehran. All done on Zamani’s orders. Seems he’s intent on making something of a name for himself.’
‘Right. But you’re not seriously suggesting I show these to his daughter, Tannaz? She’ll run a mile.’
‘Take a closer look at the last one,’ Rizki said. He was looking out to sea now. The happy cries of children could be heard above the clamour of gulls and waves. Luke turned back to the final photograph in the pile. And there he was, Karim Zamani, standing upright and proud next to the bloodied and battered corpse of one of his victims.
‘Jesus …’ Luke felt nauseous just looking at him and what he was capable of doing. ‘The man is a monster.’
‘You could say that,’ Rizki replied. ‘And when the moment comes, and you get in front of Tannaz, you might find that image quite persuasive.’
Chapter 26
Abu Dhabi
LUKE PAID THE driver and took his place in the growing queue outside the Manarat Gallery. It was just past midday and the December sun was scorching his forehead. But it still beat wading through an icy stream in Armenia, pursued by slavering dogs and trigger-happy policemen. The people around him seemed to be a microcosm of expat society in the Emirates: a British family, pink and freckled, was immediately in front. ‘Sean, put that back now!’ the mother commanded as her errant five-year-old tried to run off with a traffic cone. Beyond them a large family of Sikhs, colourfully dressed, was impeccably behaved. There were well-fed Egyptian families and a quiet couple from Syria, all under the bored gaze of Emirati policemen. The Manaret Gallery was indeed drawing a diverse and well-heeled crowd.
Inside, a steward directed visitors to the exhibition floor plan on a far wall. Luke followed the crowd, pushing his way gently through to where he could scan the list of exhibitors. Quatro Fine Art … Leila Hammoudi … There it was, the Faridoon Gallery, Hall C6. No rush, take your time, just saunter over when you’re ready. Luke felt certain that Brendan Hall, contemporary art dealer from fashionable Bloomsbury, would probably not be a man in a hurry.
From force of habit, his eyes swept the room for security cameras. This was supposedly friendly territory, the UAE an ally of Britain, but you never knew just who was watching those camera feeds and what sort of company they were keeping. Luke made a mental note of the positions of all four CCTV cameras and steered a careful course around them. Not easy, when there must have been at least a thousand people milling around the exhibition, their voices echoing off the walls of the exhibitors’ stands in a dozen different languages.
Luke took refuge some way off in a stand from Jeddah. He stood facing a massive collage of black-and-white photographs of the Old City, measuring at least four metres by four metres, expensively mounted and largely ignored. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Faridoon Gallery, partly obscured by a throng of visitors. He watched it discreetly, while feigning interest in the pictures of Old Jeddah, then walked slowly towards it.
‘Mr Brendan?’ A young man detached himself from a group in conversation and approached Luke with a welcoming smile. Dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes, crisp white shirt. He fitted the description of the man Rizki said would meet him, but he couldn’t be certain until they’d gone through the validation phrases. ‘Hi,’ the man said cheerfully as they shook hands. ‘I’m Alireza. Welcome to the Faridoon.’ He steered Luke past a large metallic sculpture mounted on a pedestal. ‘You must be the first British visitor we’ve had today,’ he continued.
Words spoken so casually, so off the cuff, it almost sounded like he meant them. But this, Luke knew, was the confirmation of his identity, and he needed to get the response right first time or the conversation would end there and then. ‘They don’t know what they’re missing,’ he replied, enunciating the words carefully, but not too slowly. ‘This gallery is, how do you say it in Farsi? Khayli ba haala – so cool!’
Alireza laughed convincingly. ‘Please, have a seat,’ he said, pointing at a chair next to a small round table in the corner, ‘while I get you our brochure.’
The Faridoon Gallery was busy: people were arriving in groups and greeting each other affectionately. It seemed to Luke to be something of a social hub for Iranians living in Abu Dhabi. Even with his limited knowledge of the Persian language he recognized the noisy chatter around him as Farsi, not Arabic. It sounded somehow softer, gentler, without the guttural tones of Gulf Arabic. From his seat in the corner, he had a good look at the melee of faces. The clientele was mostly women, all strikingly good-looking and wearing a lot of jewellery, with large, designer sunglasses pushed up high onto their immaculate hair. He noticed some had unusually straight noses, a sign of the extraordinary popularity of cosmetic surgery in modern Iran.
So which two were Tannaz and her mother? He thought he had memorized their faces well enough but now he wasn’t so sure. Hell, they could be any of these women. And what if they weren’t here? What if they’d gone shopping? The thought prompted a sudden pang of regret. Christmas was just days away and he should be with Elise, not sitting in an Abu Dhabi art gallery, waiting to meet two women who had no idea who he was, and probably little interest in him anyway.
Alireza returned with a brochure. It was the same as the one Faisal Rizki had produced earlier that morning. Luke thanked him as he watched the young man hover around a tall, dark-haired woman in a jacket, designer jeans and leather boots. She had her back to Luke and was deep in conversation with four or five others, but the moment they moved on Luke saw Alireza seize his chance. He touched her arm, whispered something in her ear and led her to Luke, who stood as she approached.
‘This is Madame Sara Faridoon.’ Luke smiled as Alireza made the fawning introductions. ‘We are in her gallery. Sara, let me introduce you to Brendan Hall, a dealer from London.’
‘From London?’ She raised a sculpted eyebrow. ‘You’ve come so far. I hope it’s not just for our little exhibition here?’ She waved a languid, exquisitely manicured hand around the gallery.
Millions, he thought, as he gave her his best smile. The stuff in here will be worth millions. ‘Khosh bakhtam,’ he replied. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ It was a phrase he had taught himself on the plane over and now it was having exactly the desired effect. The gallery owner’s face lit up like a lamp and she immediately addressed him in a stream of Farsi.
Luke held up his hands in apology. ‘I’m afraid that’s about the limit of my Farsi, sorry. But I’m keen to learn more. In fact, I’m an open book when it comes to modern Persian art. I’m happy to be educated!’ Too forward, he wondered, even as he said it. But apparently not.
‘In that case,’ replied Sara Faridoon, ‘we must do our best to help you!’ She considered him for a moment, her head cocked to one side. ‘Tell me, Mr …?’
‘Please call me Brendan.’
‘Do you like Persian food, Brendan?’
‘Love it,’ he lied. If this was going to be an invitation to anything like the stuff he’d had to eat while visiting tribal leaders in Kandahar, it would be nothing short of an ordeal.
‘Excellent.’ She clapped her hands together, her bracelets jangling. ‘Then why don’t you join us this evening for dinner? I’m having a little get-together in honour of my friend Forouz and her daughter Tannaz. They’re over here from Tehran and you can ask them all about Persian art.’
Bingo. Luke kept his face impassive but his heart rate had just picked up a gear. This was it. He’d made it to first base.
‘I’d be delighted,’ he replied. ‘Which restaurant?’
Sara touched his arm, as if anointing him into her inner circle. ‘Eight o’clock at the embassy. The Iranian Embassy. And do be sure to bring your passport. They can be very strict about security.’
Chapter 27
Whitehall, London
‘I SHOULD PROBABLY tell you all,’ said Nigel Batstone, addressing the weekly Foreign and Commonwealth Office Iran departmental meeting in King Charles Street, ‘that I’ve had a visit from our friends across the river.’ The Director of the Middle East and North Africa Department, known as MENA, tipped his head in a south-westerly direction towards Vauxhall Cross. ‘More of a representation, if you will. I won’t go into the finer details but suffice it to say they’re having profound reservations about our cosying up to the Iranians.’
‘Don’t we all?’ murmured someone else at the table.
Batstone ignored the remark. ‘Let’s just say,’ he continued, ‘their concerns are more technical than political. More to do with … compliance. That is to say, compliance with the terms of the nuclear deal, the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action.’
‘Has this been shared with Number Ten and the NSC?’ asked the woman next to him. Sheila Babcock had been the Deputy Head of Mission at the British Embassy in Tehran until the place was ransacked in 2011.
‘I’m sure SIS are sharing it with anyone who’ll listen,’ said Batstone, ‘but I believe our job is to focus more on the political angle. I think we’re all agreed that the transition from Presidents Ahmedinejad to Rouhani in 2013 was a positive step, a decisive move towards normalization of relations with the rest of the world. Now we need to encourage the Iranians to keep moving down that path.’
‘I have to say,’ asserted Sheila Babcock, taking off her glasses and placing them on the table in front of her, ‘that their human-rights record is still absolutely abysmal. If anything, it’s getting worse. They executed at least two hundred people last year, most of them in secret. Some are comparing it to the worst of the purges in the first years after the Islamic Revolution.’
