Ultimatum, page 24
‘Bandar-e-Laft?’ he asked the pilot. He needed to be sure he had brought him to the right port. The man nodded as he threw a rope around a corroded cleat and secured the boat. It was three p.m., that dead hour of the afternoon in the Gulf when most people were resting indoors after a late lunch.
Zamani stepped out of the speedboat onto the jetty, then made his way along the wooden boardwalk past a beached row of empty dhows. He spotted the pick-up truck idling just beyond a pile of nets. These days, with his exalted rank and status in the Revolutionary Guards, Karim Zamani was more used to travelling in comfort, chauffeured around Tehran in the back of a limousine. But, as he often reminded himself, his had been a simple upbringing in a dusty village.
They drove for nearly an hour across the flat, lunar landscape of Qeshm Island. Mudwalled fortresses would shimmer into focus on the horizon behind palm groves quivering in the heat haze, but then, when Zamani looked closer, they would turn out to be mud and rock, nothing more. It was a barren land, scorched by the sun, and fatigue was catching up with him now. At times he dared not close his eyes in case plans started to unravel while he slept. He glanced down from his vantage-point in the truck’s cab as they passed through a village where women squatted by the roadside, offering trays of dates for sale. They were wearing colourful bangles round their ankles and the distinctive shiny gold, hawklike masks of Qeshm Island. To Zamani, it was as if he were visiting a different and rather primitive country, but he didn’t let the outdated ways of the Qeshm islanders concern him. This place suited him – and the Circle – for a very specific purpose.
They followed the road as it wound through a mangrove swamp – the trees laden with herons – until they came to a small side road, signposted in Farsi, and, curiously, in English as Salt Cave Road. It pointed inland, towards a range of low, dun-coloured hills. Ahead, a no-entry sign had been placed in the middle of the dusty track and a chain of ‘stingers’, their vicious spikes sharp enough to shred the tyres of any unsuspecting vehicle, had been stretched across its surface. Excellent. Zamani’s orders had been followed to the letter. Beyond that a dark blue van, marked ‘Border Security’, waited, and nearby stood two uniformed guards, each cradling an assault rifle. Everything was as it should be. The Namakdan Salt Caves had become strictly off-limits to the public.
Chapter 64
Wahiba Sands, Oman
TEN-YEAR-OLD MAZIN AL-WAHIBI stopped in his tracks on the crest of a dune and stared at what was unfolding before his eyes, down in the valley below. A large aircraft, painted in brown and black, had just descended out of the clear blue sky at an impossibly steep angle, its four propeller engines roaring as it taxied on the hard-packed sand of the valley floor. Within seconds it had rolled to a stop, its engines still turning. Clouds of dust and sand billowed into the air as the tail ramp went down. From his vantage-point on the dune, Mazin saw two lines of men stream out of the back. They seemed to be carrying guns and had large packs on their backs. He’d no idea that it had a name, but Mazin Al-Wahibi had just witnessed a TALO – a tactical air landing operation.
Like all the Bedu who live in the searing heat of the Wahiba Sands, Mazin had grown up quickly amid its mountainous dunes. He was eight years old when his father taught him how to drive the family’s ancient pick-up truck and he began to run short errands into the nearest village. By the age of nine, he was entrusted with guarding the family’s precious herd of sheep and goats, almost their entire worldly wealth, across the rippling dunes of this Omani desert. On his daily foraging trips, watching over the two dozen animals as they nibbled and chewed at the sparse vegetation that grew wherever there was water, he had often seen soldiers training. They were always Omani soldiers, from the Sultan of Oman’s armed forces, men from his own country’s national army with their distinctive green and khaki shimagh headdresses. He would wave at them and they would wave cheerfully back. But these men today were different. They were bigger, broader, and they moved more quickly, with a sense of purpose.
Mazin squatted on his dune, twirling the stick he always carried. He watched as the men the aeroplane had brought now busied themselves putting up tents and nets that made dappled patterns on the sand. And then they seemed to be running to and fro, shouting in a language he didn’t understand. Their guns were making loud bangs but nobody was falling down so Mazin assumed they could not be firing real bullets, only pretend ones.
He sighed. The sun was setting and it was time to go. He called happily as he rounded up his animals. This was definitely something to tell his family when he got back to the corrugated-iron and chicken-wire encampment that was their home. Mazin Al-Wahibi didn’t know it but he was the only person in Oman to have watched the UK’s highly secretive Special Boat Service assault team carry out their final rehearsals for a covert hostage-rescue mission.
Chapter 65
Qeshm Island, Iran
LONG SHADOWS WERE reaching out from the sandstone cliffs behind him as Karim Zamani jumped down from the pick-up truck. As the door slammed, the two men at the checkpoint raised their weapons, muzzles pointing straight at his chest. This he approved of. ‘Kuh be kuh nemi-rasad,’ he called to them. ‘A mountain never meets a mountain.’
‘Adam be âdam mi-rasad,’ they replied in unison, lowering their assault rifles. ‘But a man can always meet a man.’ The challenge completed, he walked towards them and the three men embraced.
‘How long has it been?’ he asked them, offering a packet of Winston International cigarettes.
They thanked him. ‘Eight, maybe nine hours since they came through,’ one answered.
‘Khayli khubeh,’ replied Zamani. ‘Excellent. And no one else?’
‘No one.’
Karim Zamani didn’t want to linger out in the open. Acutely conscious of the West’s aerial and geospatial surveillance, he was keen to avoid being singled out by one of its drones or spy planes. His driver had kept the pick-up truck’s engine running and now he hurried back to the relative safety of the cab. As they drove on, deeper inland, Zamani felt a mounting excitement. He was nearing the end of his journey. Looking out at the darkening landscape, this was a barren, deserted place, which was exactly why the Circle had chosen it. Here the desert floor appeared white and brittle, like the sugary glaze on the cakes his grandfather used to bring them when he was growing up. It was salt. He remembered that from the reconnaissance team’s detailed report. And that meant they were getting close.
The cave entrance was so well concealed behind a scree of fallen boulders that at first Zamani failed to spot it. As the truck pulled up and he dismounted, three men stepped out from the shadows. Each carried an MPT-9 sub-machine-gun levelled at him and the driver. And there was something else: a tiny red dot danced across his chest, then held still. A laser sight. Again the challenge was offered and the response accepted before the men lowered their weapons and came forward to greet him. Moments later, a fourth man appeared, hefting a Russian-designed Nakhjir sniper rifle. Congratulating them all on their vigilance, Zamani sought to put the sentries at their ease.
‘Asbaab bazi haro bezar kenar!’ he quipped. ‘Put the toys away!’ In the gathering darkness he went up to two of the men and gave them their orders. They would be the ones to guide him into the cave. Words were murmured into a walkie-talkie, a crackled response received, and Zamani was led towards the entrance.
There were no lights to show the way, not even a hurricane lamp, just the weak red beam from a military-issue torch held by the man in front. The cave’s mouth was barely three metres high and Karim Zamani felt as if he were entering the lair of some great dormant beast. The moment thrilled and excited him. This was everything that he and the Circle had worked for. It was down here, in this remote and hidden cave, where no one would come looking for it until it was much too late. And now he, Karim Zamani, selfless and loyal guardian of the Islamic Revolution, was about to see it with his own eyes.
They moved slowly, carefully picking their way along the damp, slippery surface, Zamani staying close behind the guard with the torch. The beam picked out glistening white stalactites that dripped in jagged columns from the ceiling. Crystals crunched like gravel beneath their feet as the cavern grew narrower, the ceiling closed in, the temperature fell and the atmosphere became ever-more oppressive and claustrophobic.
It was another twenty minutes before they saw the lights and shadows moving, like ghosts, across the wall of the cavern in front of them. Zamani pushed ahead. Waiting for him was the man he hoped to see – instantly recognizable from the livid scar that ran down the side of his face.
‘Ali-jaan.’ The two men embraced and held each other for a long moment, saying nothing, only patting each other’s backs. Others now gathered round, eager to greet him, but Zamani held up his hand for silence and looked questioningly at the man with the scar.
He nodded. ‘If you are ready?’
‘I am,’ Zamani replied, and followed him deeper into the cavern.
In the subterranean beauty of the Namakdan Salt Caves the cage looked curiously out of place. Situated in a smaller cave to one side, its door was secured by a heavy padlock and chain, while a pair of armed guards stood at either side of it. Zamani stepped forward to take a closer look, his fingers closing around the cold, damp bars. He couldn’t help but smile. At the base of the cage there was a thin, soiled mattress, and lying on it, half propped up on his elbow, was a man. To Zamani, he was a pathetic sight, dejected, dishevelled, lying there in his own filth. And Zamani felt no pity, only a sense of enormous satisfaction.
Karim Zamani cleared his throat and spat on the cave floor. It was time to introduce himself to his guest. He spoke in slow, halting English. ‘Welcome … Mr Foreign Secretary. My name is Karim Zamani and this …’ he paused to wave his arm expansively around the cave, a parody of lavish hospitality ‘… is your new home.’
Chapter 66
Bandar Abbas, Iran
HE HARDLY RECOGNIZED Tannaz. The girl who had left him in a Tehran side-street the day before had been cool, sardonic, self-confident. Now she stood before him, her headscarf discarded on a cushion at her feet, tears pouring down her cheeks and her shoulders heaving with each sob. She looked broken. Hesitating for only a second, Luke went to fold her into a hug. Farz and Mort looked at each other, clearly embarrassed and unsure what to do. But as her sobs subsided, Tannaz disentangled herself from Luke and slumped onto one of the cushions. Luke squatted in front of her.
‘Tannaz,’ he whispered. She looked up at him – her make-up had run – and he saw a deep sadness in her eyes. It took him by surprise but he realized then that he cared about this girl. Of course it wasn’t like with Elise – that was different. No, this was something else. For all her bravado, her confidence, he sensed vulnerability in Tannaz, and he wanted to help her. He was aware that this was deeply unprofessional. What was it they had said to him back on the agent-handling course in Hampshire? ‘One of the hardest things you’ll find in this job is knowing how to keep a distance from your agent. Form a bond, by all means, establish mutual trust, but never, ever get emotionally attached to them.’
Luke leaned forward, put his hand over hers and held it there. ‘It’s good to see you again, Tannaz,’ he said quietly. She raised her eyes to his briefly, then looked down at her feet. ‘D’you want to tell me why you’re here?’
She didn’t answer at first. Instead she reached for a napkin, then gratefully took the cup of rose-petal tea that Mort had brought her.
‘To be honest,’ Luke continued, ‘I kind of thought we’d said goodbye back in Tehran. That was your choice, not mine. So …’ He stopped as she held up her hand, then took a sip of her tea.
When Tannaz spoke her voice was so quiet he had to move closer to catch her words. ‘You were right.’ Her jaw was set tight and she was nodding slowly. ‘You were right about everything. I should have listened.’ Something had clearly happened to her, he could see that. He was desperate to find out what it was and, shamefully, he recognized a part of him was already whispering in his head: Play this to your advantage, Luke. You can work it into the mission.
There was no park for them to stroll out into, no cosmopolitan café in which to hide. They were in a private house in a quiet corner of Bandar Abbas, a bustling port on Iran’s Gulf coast, and there was nowhere else for them to go. Whatever she had to say would have to be said there, in front of Farz and Mort. The two men sat down in a corner, giving her space, leaning their backs against the wall, both looking at her expectantly.
‘It was Mama who told me,’ she began, staring at her feet, her hands clasped tightly together.
‘Told you what?’ Luke prompted.
‘Sorry? What?’ Tannaz looked up at him abruptly, as if noticing him for the first time.
‘What did your mum tell you, Tannaz?’
‘They spoke last night,’ she replied, ‘on the phone, my father and her. A big argument. So loud I could hear it from the next room so I came in to be with her.’ Tannaz had stopped again, busy with her thoughts. ‘When it ended Mama told me it was over, her and him. She’s leaving him today. She’s taking my brother, Parviz. They’re leaving the country, but she hasn’t told my father. Oh, my God …’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘There’s something else. Something I’m ashamed to tell you.’
Luke sensed Farz and Mort edging closer. Whatever Tannaz had to say, they wanted to hear it.
‘My father … my father …’ Tannaz shook her head as if the truth were too painful to tell. ‘My father is involved. He has a part in the kidnapping of the British man!’ she blurted.
He made a show of recoiling in shock, while the surprise on the faces of Farz and Mort was real. Tannaz was confirming exactly what Vauxhall Cross had suspected. Luke replayed Angela’s words in his mind: We’ve had a comms intercept … enough to suggest Zamani’s involved in the abduction. Seventy per cent certainty … need to get yourself to where he’s going.
‘Christ, Tannaz,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Mama told me. She confronted him on the phone. She said he seemed very happy about this whole crisis we are in right now. So she asked him what good it could possibly do for the country. And do you know what my father replied? He said, “Soon you will see,” and then he said, “Tanha khoda mi taeva dar bareh ye man gheza vat konad.”’
Immediately Farz and Mort nodded knowingly while Luke had to wait for her to translate.
‘It means “Only God can judge.” And that’s when she knew! She’s known him all these years, remember. He cannot hide things from her. The truth was plain for her to see and she made up her mind to leave.’
‘But you’re here, Tannaz? In Bandar Abbas.’ His question was left hanging in the air.
‘Yes. I took the plane. I got the eleven-fifteen flight from Tehran on Aseman.’
‘What I meant,’ said Luke, ‘was why are you here and not with your mother?’
Tannaz didn’t answer straight away. Instead she got to her feet. ‘Give me a moment,’ she said and disappeared into another room. The door closed. Farz and Mort burst into a heated discussion, leaving Luke to consider his next move. He looked at his watch. Exploit the situation, the voice in his head repeated. Find a way to leverage off this. You don’t have much time left.
Tannaz reappeared minutes later, her make-up reapplied, her hair brushed. She looked fresh and reinvigorated. She smiled briefly before speaking to her two friends. They looked puzzled, but nodded and disappeared out of the house.
‘I’ve asked them to give us some privacy for an hour or so,’ she said. The familiar self-assurance was back as she patted the cushion next to her. ‘Come, sit with me.’
Luke did as she suggested but inwardly he tensed, wary of what might come next. He still didn’t really know her, and the possibilities raced through his mind as he sat and turned to face her. Yet still he didn’t see it coming.
‘We want asylum. In Britain,’ announced Tannaz. ‘For all three of us. My mother, my brother and me.’ She looked at him intently, the sadness gone from her eyes, replaced by a burning determination. ‘You can fix it, yes?’
Luke rubbed the bald stump of his missing finger. He suddenly felt very tired. How much sleep had he had in the last twenty-four hours? Almost none. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You came down here to Bandar Abbas to ask me this face to face?’
‘Yes.’
Still the intent gaze. Luke exhaled. This, he realized, was a watershed moment. Get it right and Tannaz could help him pin down the exact whereabouts of Zamani and the captive Geoffrey Chaplin.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I can speak to people in London. I can give it a go.’ Before he could say another word Tannaz put her hands behind his head, pulling him towards her. She kissed him full on the lips, just as she had done at their first strange encounter in Abu Dhabi all those weeks ago. He felt her tongue probing his, her hands running down his back and pulling him closer still. Luke didn’t resist.
As they broke away, he continued kissing her neck, working his way up until his lips brushed her ear. ‘You do know, Tannaz,’ he whispered, ‘that I’m going to need you to help me in return?’
Her eyes were closed, her hands round his hips now. ‘Anything,’ she murmured. ‘Anything you ask.’
Chapter 67
Permanent Joint Headquarters, Northwood
AT JUST PAST two o’clock in the afternoon, London time, the weak winter light was already fading and motorists on the A4125 had switched on their sidelights. Just beyond the dank, dripping woods that bordered the road outside London, Britain’s Permanent Joint Headquarters had quietly gone into overdrive. Behind the chain-link fences, the surveillance cameras and the twenty-four-hour perimeter patrols, the Joint Ops planning teams were working round the clock, all minds focusing on the task ahead. How to deliver an assault team of fully laden Special Boat Service commandos, at night, onto a submarine that was 3,600 miles away, then deploy them, undetected, into Iran. The logistics were mind-boggling and, under a directive issued by the Chief of Defence Staff, a unit of Navy Command specialists had raced up from Portsmouth to advise.
