Ultimatum, page 6
‘You know, Tannaz-jaan, I do admire how you’ve done your eyebrows.’
Tannaz touched them self-consciously with her fingertips. She had hairs woven in there permanently but had resisted the temptation to copy others who had gone for the full tattoo effect.
‘Have you met Dr Vahid?’ the manicurist continued pleasantly. ‘If you’re ever thinking of a nose job, he really is the best in Tehran. Everyone’s doing it now. Many of our best clients here use him.’
Tannaz’s eyes popped open and flashed in anger. She sat up in the padded chair and spoke sharply to the surprised manicurist. ‘I don’t need plastic surgery and I don’t want Botox. You should know I am perfectly happy with the body God gave me.’
‘Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting …’ The girl trailed off and she resumed her work in cowed silence while Tannaz sat back and scowled, her good mood evaporated. Impatient for the nail polish to dry, she picked up her phone and began scrolling carefully through her messages. One from that boy Ramin – she deleted it. Then there was a text from her mother, and her heart sank. She would be going on at her again to come and meet some eligible bachelor, someone she had zero interest in. But, instead, a smile spread over her face as she read on. Tannaz put down her phone and touched her manicurist tenderly on the shoulder. The girl recoiled, wary of another rebuke, but her client had already forgotten their earlier exchange.
‘Be happy for me!’ Tannaz said. ‘Mama is taking me to an art exhibition in Abu Dhabi!’ She clapped her hands and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘Finally, a break from this place.’
Chapter 15
Geghard Monastery, Armenia
LUKE MOVED FAST. He leaped back from Black Run’s lifeless corpse and whirled round, ready to face the killer. The pool of blood at his feet had yet to congeal, the murder just minutes old, so whoever had done it could not have gone far. In fact, he might still be here in the chapel. Heart thumping, Luke paced quickly round the dark recesses of the chamber but it was deserted, save for the shapeless bulk of Black Run’s body slumped beside the column. And then he remembered. There was a reason why the agent had asked for this meeting in person. He had something to hand over – a file, a document, a trove of data – some vital piece in the jigsaw of intelligence that MI6 was trying to build on Iran’s covert nuclear programme. Luke dashed back to the body and searched through Black Run’s pockets, fingers scrabbling, but all he came up with was a handful of empty pistachio shells. If the agent had brought anything with him to this debrief it was gone. Which meant only one thing: the killer had stolen it.
Something had changed in the way the choir were singing: there was finality in the pitch of their voices. They were coming to the end of their session. Any minute now they would start to disperse, then someone would find the body and it would all turn to rat shit as he got fingered as the prime suspect. He looked down. The dead man’s blood was all over his hands and there were dark droplets on the front of his jacket. Luke would have a hard time explaining that to the Armenian police with no diplomatic cover to save him. He bent down quickly and shifted the dead agent’s body, concealing it behind the column to buy himself extra time, then walked past the choir, still with their backs to him, and out of the door into the courtyard.
It was empty. The guide, the tourist and his selfie stick had departed. So now he had a choice to make: get back to Yerevan as fast as possible or go after Black Run’s killer. If he called it in to Vauxhall Cross, he knew exactly what the response would be: ‘Safety first, Carlton. Remember the risk assessment. Remove yourself from the scene of the crime and stay out of sight.’ And Luke knew that that was probably the most sensible course of action. Yet he was damned if he was going to admit defeat. Eight years as a Royal Marines officer, then four in the secretive Special Boat Service had taught him to seek out the unusual, to surprise his opponent with the least expected course of action. His agent debrief had been thwarted, in the worst way imaginable, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Yet he could salvage the mission if he tracked down the killer, found out who had sent him and retrieved the stolen file. He would call in to Vauxhall Cross and break the news that they’d lost Black Run. But only once he had finished this.
It was starting to snow, thin, dry flakes falling like feathers from a sullen sky. That meant there would soon be footprints. His, as well as the killer’s. The chapel behind him had fallen silent. Luke crossed the empty courtyard and went out through the stone gateway. The accordion player had gone, and for a moment Luke wondered if he could have been responsible for Black Run’s murder, but he dismissed the idea. Why would the killer hang around?
Outside the monastery’s fortress-like walls, Luke dropped out of sight into a gully. He was trying to put himself into the killer’s mind – ‘Red Teaming’, they called it in the Service – imagining what he would do if he were the killer, and then it came to him. The mountainside was pocked with caves, each one a perfect hiding place, somewhere to go to ground and wait for the coast to be clear, then slip away, probably under cover of darkness.
From deep inside his jacket Luke took out a miniature pair of binoculars, compact enough to fit in the palm of one hand. Only 8x25 magnification, but that was enough to let him scan the mountainside intently for the slightest movement. It took him less than a minute. A man was scrambling up the slope in a hurry, his dark clothes partly obscured by the falling snow, loose rocks skidding down from where he’d missed his footing. Luke kept the binoculars trained on him, noting his position and waiting to see which cave he chose. From somewhere down in the valley he could hear a vehicle changing gear as it came up the hill. That would be the transport for the choir, he guessed. Good. With any luck they’d bugger off before anyone found Black Run’s body in the side-chapel.
The figure in the viewfinder had stopped and turned towards him, looking back down the mountain. For a moment he seemed to Luke to be looking directly at him, as if willing him to follow. Then he turned back and vanished inside a cave. Getting up there without being seen by his quarry wasn’t the issue. As a former Royal Marines Commando, Luke had sailed through the gruelling eight-month mountain-leader course in Scotland and Norway, learning how to scale the most daunting rock faces and survive in sub-zero temperatures. No, the issue here was that the killer in the cave had a serious blade on him, possibly even a firearm, and Luke had a Swiss Army penknife. What he wouldn’t have given right now for a silenced Glock or a Sig Sauer pistol.
This was madness, a one-man mission against unknown odds. He could almost hear Angela at Vauxhall Cross telling him to let it go and abort the mission. And he didn’t even want to think of what Elise would say. But, fuck it, he’d see it through.
Luke put away the binoculars and made a rapid assessment of the route he was going to take: he would use the dead ground out of sight of the cave’s entrance. Then he set off up, his breath frosting, his fingertips gripping the snow-dusted rocks as his boots sought toeholds. When he reached a point halfway to his target he paused to catch his breath and listen. Silence from the monastery below and, in the car park outside the gates, he could see that the bus to take the choir home was still there. Not a good sign. The longer those people stayed, the greater the risk they’d find Black Run.
Without warning, a large bird soared right past him, an eagle perhaps, making him duck instinctively. The bird passed so close to him that Luke could hear the muted hiss of wind sifting through its outstretched wingtips and saw the creature’s head swivel left and right as it searched the ground for prey. Was he prey too? Was he being drawn into a trap? Spurred on towards a fatal encounter by his own bloody ego? For a second time he stopped to question the wisdom of what he was doing. He was at the point of deciding to jack it in when a sound pierced the stillness of the valley, freezing him to the spot. Police sirens.
Chapter 16
Whitehall, London
DR KEN PATERSON never liked crossing the river to Whitehall. With his scientific training and years spent closeted in secret labs at the Atomic Weapons Establishment in Aldermaston, Berkshire, he liked to deal in facts, not policies, certainties not nuance. But as Head of Counter-proliferation at MI6 he was finding that an inordinate amount of his time was taken up in crossing Lambeth or Westminster Bridge, attending meeting after meeting in Whitehall. Today was one of those days. This would be a sensitive encounter, just him and Nigel Batstone, the Director of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s Middle East and North Africa Department.
In earlier times the two men might have discussed their business over a leisurely dinner at the Travellers Club, a short stroll away across the park in Pall Mall. They would probably have thrashed out their differences as they reclined in stiff leather armchairs, tipping a discreet nod to the barman for another glass of vintage Armagnac. But twenty-first-century Whitehall wasn’t like that. Both men were overworked, with cluttered diaries and busy families, so they had scheduled a meeting on the first floor of the FCO for 0930 hours.
Wearing his customary tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a knitted woollen tie, Paterson sat in the back of the chauffeured car, his hand resting protectively on the locked case beside him. Behind its combination keys sat the Parchin File, a condensed version of everything MI6’s Counter-proliferation Division had gathered so far on Iran’s suspected illicit nuclear programme. They drove through Parliament Square, past a motley collection of anti-war protesters, with handwritten banners, then a short way along Whitehall and swung left into King Charles Street. An elderly security guard peered at the number plate and looked down at his list, then ambled over to pass an upturned mirror on the end of a pole beneath the car’s chassis. He checked beneath the bonnet and in the boot, then nodded them through. The steel barriers slid into the ground, allowing the car to pass.
A young researcher, fresh-faced and mustard keen, despite her absurdly low salary, escorted him from Reception across the courtyard, through a doorway and up the magnificent sweep of staircase to the first floor. Paterson had arranged to meet Batstone in the Entente Cordiale Room, a vast, ornate, almost palatial chamber that smacked of former glories long past. The FCO mandarin was already there, sitting – rather awkwardly, Paterson thought – in front of an empty unlit fireplace and beneath an enormous gilt-framed portrait of King George V, resplendent in his dress uniform and ermine cape. Paterson marvelled at how, after all these years, the place still gave off echoes of Empire.
Batstone’s PA came in bearing a tray of coffee and tiny cartons of UHT milk. She took his coat, then left them to it, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Thank you for making time to see me,’ Paterson began.
‘Not at all.’ Batstone gave him a forced smile. ‘So, what can I do for you?’ He could be urbane and charming, but Paterson strongly suspected this was not a visit he would welcome. Head of Counter-proliferation at MI6? He could almost sense Batstone’s scepticism, even before he opened the locked case at his side. Everyone knew things were at a sensitive stage right now with Anglo-Iranian relations. The FCO and the more pragmatic technocrats in Iran’s Foreign Ministry had worked hard to repair the damage done after that mob had invaded the British Embassy in Tehran in 2011. Channels were kept open with the Iranians despite the worsening tension between them and the US Navy in the Gulf. Paterson had done his homework and he knew the last thing Batstone wanted at this stage was a new complication introduced by the spooks on the other side of the Thames.
‘It’s about Iran,’ he began. ‘I know it’s flavour of the month in this department but on our side I have to tell you we’re having some serious concerns.’
Batstone gave a strangled laugh, more of a snort really, and got up to fetch himself a teaspoon. ‘Well, I wouldn’t describe it as our flavour of the month.’ He went back to his seat, stirred his coffee and scowled as a rogue drop landed on an immaculate white cuff. ‘We have concerns of our own, naturally, about events in the Gulf. We’re giving the Americans our full support in the Security Council. But, that said, we do believe the current crisis will blow over in time and our policy is very much one of engagement. The gravitational pull is what you might call “constructive ambiguity”. It’s a risk-based approach,’ Batstone continued, the modish Whitehall jargon tripping off his tongue with practised ease, ‘and, going forward, it’s vitally important that the moderates are seen to be rewarded for signing up to the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action – the nuclear deal.’
Paterson stared back at him for a long moment. As a trained nuclear scientist he was more than used to jargon. But this? This was another language to him, alien and unhelpful. ‘Constructive ambiguity’? What a load of nonsense. In his book, either something was or it wasn’t. ‘Rewarded for what, exactly?’ he said patiently.
‘Well, let’s review it, shall we?’ Batstone suggested. He was known to take a patronizing tone with people who couldn’t see things as clearly as he expected them to. It was a long-established trait. Some would call it a flaw, but Paterson thought he was probably unaware of it. ‘Since that deal was signed in Vienna,’ Batstone continued, ‘Iran has reduced its stockpile of uranium by ninety-eight per cent. It’s also closed down two-thirds of its centrifuges, and has stopped enriching uranium at that underground place – Far-something.’
‘Fardo,’ said Paterson, helpfully.
‘Yes.’ Batstone seemed to be making a conscious effort to soften his tone. ‘So I do think we’re in a good place now. And, of course, the PM is keen to see some positive spin-offs from the deal.’
‘Of course. I can appreciate that,’ said Paterson, finally reaching for the briefcase he had brought with him and twirling the combination locks. ‘But my team would also like to make you aware of some disturbing developments at Parchin.’
The Head of FCO Middle East and North Africa sat back in his chair, as if trying to place some distance between himself and whatever was about to come out of the case. He crossed his legs and threw his visitor a wary glance. ‘What sort of developments?’ he asked.
‘We believe,’ said Paterson, ‘with seventy-five per cent certainty, that an element of the Revolutionary Guards Corps is covertly working on something banned by the Vienna treaty, something deep in a tunnel at Parchin that they haven’t declared.’ He looked meaningfully at his host.
‘Right. Could you be a little more specific?’ said Batstone, irritation now creeping into his voice.
At first Paterson didn’t answer. He pulled out a sheaf of papers from the briefcase, some with diagrams and satellite images, then passed them across to Batstone. ‘There’s a tunnel down there which they declared to be out of service,’ he said, leaning forward and pointing at a circled area on a laminated satellite photo. ‘But the fact is it isn’t. What’s more, there’s something going on down there they don’t want us to see.’
‘Which is?’
Paterson hadn’t expected to have to spell it out but now he looked Batstone straight in the face. ‘It is our estimation,’ he said, ‘that work is in progress on weaponizing a nuclear device.’
‘Christ,’ said Batstone. ‘You mean a warhead?’
‘Possibly, yes. Their missile programme is racing ahead – they’ve even put satellites into space.’
Batstone got up and walked over to the window. A moment later Paterson joined him. There wasn’t much of a view, just the blank grey walls of the Treasury opposite and a few bare trees below in St James’s Park. The glass was grimy and stained with rain splashes. With FCO budgets under constant pressure the cleaning contracts had been one of the first casualties of the cuts. He could see an elderly commissionaire standing in King Charles Street, remonstrating with a white van driver. An untidy jumble of scaffolding lay piled on the pavement – there seemed to be a never-ending succession of half-finished building works going on.
‘I hate to say this, Ken,’ said Batstone, ‘but haven’t we been here before with your Service? I mean, with Iraq and the whole WMD debacle? You’ll forgive me if I’m coming across as a little sceptical.’
‘No, no, that’s completely understandable,’ replied Paterson. He had anticipated this. ‘But we’re expecting some hard evidence of their activities to come to us out of Iran any day now. We … um … we have a very well-placed agent who’s had first-hand eyes on what I’ve just described to you.’
‘I see,’ said Batstone.
Paterson could tell from his tone that he wasn’t convinced.
‘You do know, don’t you, that the Foreign Secretary plans to visit Iran in the near future?’ Batstone went on. ‘We obviously don’t want any spoilers ahead of that visit. It’ll be the first by a UK Foreign Secretary since the US and Iranian elections. I can’t emphasize enough how important this is for Britain. If anyone’s going to defuse the tensions in the Gulf then it falls to us.’
‘I was aware that a visit was possible,’ said Paterson, ‘and that’s exactly why I’m here today. Given our concerns about their covert nuclear activities, don’t you think it might be prudent to put the brakes on this rapprochement with Tehran?’ The conversation made him feel as if he was trying to swim through marmalade.
Batstone cleared his throat and moved away from the window. ‘I hear you,’ he replied, diplo-speak for All right, you’ve made your point and I totally disagree with everything you’ve just said. ‘And your views are duly noted. But I’m sorry, Ken, without some solid proof of these “covert activities” you mention I really can’t see how you would expect us to change course. I’ll say it again: we need to engage with the Iranians. I think we’re all agreed on that, are we not? And the Foreign Secretary’s visit is very much a part of that constructive engagement, which is enshrined in policy now.’
Paterson followed him back to the fireplace, making some effort to hide his exasperation. The meeting was clearly over. ‘Just give us a few more days,’ he said, ‘and we’ll get you that solid proof. In fact, it should already be on its way over to us.’
