The Primary Objective, page 21
Gil had been late. It was just after 02.00. Dave would get his new colleagues back to the barn and manage the introductions.
Some forty minutes later, Dave and party arrived at the back of the farm barn. A stone thrown at the window got the attention of Jack, who lowered the ladder. One by one they entered the mezzanine via the hatch. The barn was now congested with six in it and another expected. Backpacks were stowed ready at one end of the space. All shook hands and fist-pumped in silence. They waited on the arrival of the last member of the team. Despite the quiet, the air carried the static of excitement. Dave now had the team to do the job.
Fawaz arrived shortly after with flasks of tea and what he called soup. Jack had been the most enthusiastic about the refreshment and was the first to taste the piping hot liquid, spitting and spluttering.
“What the fuck’s that?” he whispered, much to the amusement of his colleagues.
“It’s a type of naryn – a clear broth of horsemeat. If you were having it at table, there would be chunks of meat and pieces of thin pasta in it. My grandmother used to make it and said those men who ate it would have many children. You are lucky to be having it in Iran. If you were further east it is served like a national delicacy. Seriously, it is very effective in keeping the cold out of your bones.”
It was certainly known to Anya, who took the cup and had a good swig before passing on to Jo.
Dave called the gathering to order and asked Jo and Rodg to provide the latest observations of the Chinese compound.
He then gave his own update.
After contacting Gil, he had made his way across country towards Posyan, taking the bus to the east, stopping off first at the barn to change and collect Jack. He had the advantage of an old shirt and trousers, courtesy of Fawaz, and, having spent much of the night in a ditch, had the dirt and the smell of the land on him, so had the appearance of a casual farm hand – a not uncommon site in these parts. As for Jack, a few days without shaving had transformed him into a credible impersonator of a homeless war veteran. It was clearly a masterstroke as the antique bus seemed to be packed with all shades of humanity – mothers, kids, grannies, limbless war veterans, plus dogs and chickens – offering the best cover to hide in plain sight he could ask for in daylight hours. The overcrowding meant they had not been able to get seats, instead holding on to a couple of the straps protruding from the roof and leaning their bodyweight against the steel frames of seats towards the back. Such was the chaos, the driver seemed less concerned whether his passengers had paid than making sure no one was hanging off on the outside. The bus climbed the long slope away from the verdant valley of Ibrahim Sami into the barren lands of the mountains. Considering the old Mercedes was overloaded, it kept a steady jogging pace on the straight incline until it reached the dog-leg corner at the summit. At this point the bus’s speed dropped obligingly to a crawl, offering Dave a glimpse of a panoramic view of the climb they had just negotiated, between the back of an old woman’s head and two young girls staring at an iPad game. Jack carried a mobile with a locally purchased pay-as-you-go SIM, which would allow him to get some pictures from the reconnoitre. The bus was not due to stop before Posyan and so they were reconciled to standing the whole way. With everyone’s personal space invaded, Jack found himself closer than he had wanted to an old woman. He tried to avoid her gaze but started to feel uncomfortable as she looked straight at him. For a moment their eyes locked contact and the woman gave a broad smile, revealing a gum line with half a dozen teeth protruding at odd angles like tomb stones. He thought she must have felt her smile was her best asset as to the left side of her mouth she revealed a gold molar, which sparkled in the morning sunlight. She then spoke to him in what he judged to be an indistinct tone. He wasn’t sure what she was saying but decided to act like he was deaf, pointing to his ear, shrugging his shoulders and offering a vague apologetic smile.
Rather than discouraging her, she continued to talk, smiling and nodding her head. What Jack hadn’t realised was, in pointing to his ear, he had drawn attention to a stud. It became clear it was the stud that interested the woman. He studiously avoided her effort at conversation as the bus crossed the brow of the mountain ridge and picked up speed on its straight descent into Posyan. His preoccupation with the woman was not shared by Dave, who, through his restricted vista, noted an armoured car and two fully loaded troop carriers passing in the opposite direction. Jack took the opportunity to reposition himself so he was now sideways on to the woman and he was able to engage Dave in a mock conversation. Realising he too was being watched, he smiled and also pointed to his ear. For some reason the old woman seemed to understand Dave better than Jack. It was true the increased tempo of the bus engine certainly drowned out any attempt at rational conversation.
As the descent started, the village of Posyan came into view, nestling in another lush valley. And, looking to the east, the outline of a runway could be made out with the naked eye.
Also visible ahead and glimpsed from their position was a rare sight in rural Iran – a traffic jam. Fortunately, the queue kept moving slowly, but Dave was pleased he was not relying on the bus to work to its predetermined timetable. Catching snippets of chatter from fellow passengers, the reason for the delay was the annual Pomegranate Parade in Posyan, which probably went some way to providing the explanation for the crush on the bus, although, to his relief, he could only see one woman with a pomegranate in her shopping bag.
The celebrated fruits, the product of shrubs cultivated in fields throughout the region to grow up to five metres, were a staple crop of the locality, their contents revealing sparkling, jewel like inner seeds, known as arils which were eaten raw or juiced. Light pink in colour, the size of a large orange, rich in antioxidants and vitamin C, pomegranates were credited with diverse health benefits from aiding the digestion to alleviating symptoms related to cancer. Not only did the parade mark a successful harvest; it also provided the opportunity for local growers to demonstrate the versatility of the fruit as a key ingredient in stews, juices and cakes, with specific varieties bred for sweet and savoury tastes. Women of all ages, dressed in their best colourful chadors in red, yellow and green, had formed a procession led by men in white tunics banging hand-held drums to a noisy and incoherent folk melody blasted out by trumpeters and accordionists. Behind the drummers came jugglers, behind the jugglers came a horse drawn cart filled with pomegranates and behind the cart were girls, swaying to the music, who had brought samples of dishes using the fruit, for bystanders to sample and buy.
As the bus neared the first buildings of the settlement, he noticed bunting attached to each, either side of the main road and the noise and chaos grew louder as the bus negotiated the highway, now flooded with bystanders enjoying the show.
Arrival at Posyan could not have come fast enough for Jack and he was relieved to see the majority of passengers disembark into the swell at the village’s central bus stop, including his new-found admirer. It was difficult not to get caught in the moment and Jack’s newly found space provided the perfect opportunity to take some snaps like any average tourist. From what he could tell, this place was smaller than Ibrahim Sami but looked prosperous nonetheless. Posyan seemed to consist of well-maintained, freshly painted low-level buildings with flat roofs, some with terraces, others with potted bacopas and verbenas cascading through balconies, the mosque dominated by a minaret, marking the centre. The bunting had been woven through orange trees which lined both sides of the main street. Dave was surprised how the departing diverse mob seemed to be absorbed by the street scene, quickly disappearing into the melee, and down surrounding alleyways. Although there were no new passengers joining the bus, the driver waited and was in no hurry to move on, adjusting his rear-view mirror, checking his phone and enjoying a cigarette. He seemed almost oblivious to the fact that some of the dancing revellers decided to continue the parade through his bus, on through the front door and off at the back, led by a musician in a white tunic with a bottle green tagiya hat and bugle. This impromptu conga line climaxed with two beautiful smiling girls, one carrying a large silver-coloured cup (similar to a Celtic quaich) of pomegranate juice, the other with a plate of cake slices, offering samples to the six people left on the bus. Dave didn’t want to appear too friendly with Jack (especially as he seemed enthralled by the action) and deliberately sat down two rows away, but he too shared his colleague’s sampling of the fruit. Once the celebrants were off the bus, Jack was surprised how quickly the street cleared and calm was restored. The parade had turned off the main street by the mosque and was filling up the adjacent small central square. The heat of the day was now setting in and whatever so-called air conditioning the bus had ceased with the engine off. There were sliding windows at the top of each frame and, despite the presence of a cool breeze, the temperature continued to rise. Dave sat impassively, looking out of the window, but Jack started to twitch, encouraged by a wasp. At that moment his attention was drawn by two soldiers in fatigues with pistols in holsters, rushing up behind the bus, shouting before scrambling on board and stuffing a couple of banknotes into the driver’s hand. He took their action as his own cue to start the engine of the bus and shout his destination, “Timor Baglo”, before releasing the handbrake and slowly moving off, past the revellers to the left. The two soldiers took advantage of the space on the bus perching on either side, maintaining their conversation in such a way that anyone could join in. The one closest to Jack lit a cigarette, took a drag and offered it to him. It was a dilemma. Jack wanted a smoke and would have accepted, but knew that would have brought him into their conversation. He smiled, shook his head and pointed to his ear.
“I think the guy is telling me he’s deaf,” one of the soldiers said to the other.
“I don’t think he would be interested anyway,” his colleague replied.
Because he was sitting slightly further away, the two men seemed oblivious to Dave.
“That governor mayor is a bit of an arsehole. Builds himself this little palace out of the way on the edge of the village and then tells our boss we have to guard it. Don’t know why they worry about security there; any enemy would have to ask locals for directions at least three times to find it. I bet that’s why no one from Tehran can be bothered to come here. Seems to think he’s in charge of everything, not just the pomegranates, that tosser. The other day, he told me I had to fix a blockage on one of his toilet pipes. I nearly told him I wasn’t a fuckin’ plumber, and it wasn’t just his toilet that was full of shit.”
His friend sniggered. “But you found a proper plumber anyway.”
“Yeah, and I told him to bring a fuckin’ big brush.”
They both laughed. His friend said, “You know we’ve had an easy gig here – even if we had to make our own way by bus. You could have ended up going with those miners up to the Arasbaran Protected Zone. Once you get up there, you’ll be stuck for a week, watching a load of dickheads from down south breaking rocks. Or you could be taking another lot over on the one-way trip to the Chinese takeaway in Sami and end up on border patrol. Or you could be teaching those so-called jihadis how to set an IED without blowing themselves up…”
“Or… I could just be taking it easy at the prison. It’s really funny watching those guys beg for food. There’s one I always tell to do an impression of a dog. He’s barking mad! At least you get to knock off on time and get to eat at the mess regularly. Woof, woof” He laughed. “When’s your next leave due?”
“Not until the end of the month. I can’t decide whether I want to go home to get the attention of my good woman or go over to Sami and buy some time with a bad one. I have a pass for the night bus to Sami on Thursday.”
“Are you part of the duty tactical squad or there on your own time?”
“Thursday night is about me. I’m not going to sit in that shitty hut by the bus station waiting for a riot, drinking tea and walking around town checking everyone else is in their beds. I’m going to play some snooker, see a movie and maybe, if I get lucky, get into someone else’s bed or, if not, at least into their knickers.”
“Is it the weekly mixed party on Thursday?”
“Yes, doing the one mixed off-duty night per week has been the best thing Rahman has done since he took charge. Everyone else who has been on it – including you, as I remember – thought it was great. I guess I always knew it would be arranged as an alphabetical order thing. Well, it’s great they’ve got down to me. It’s only taken nine weeks…”
Staring into the middle distance out of the window, Dave was translating their conversation and memorising the passing scenery.
Jack was trying to do the same, conscious he was missing key phases. The soldiers didn’t mind – they thought he was trying to lip read.
The main entrance to the garrison had a bus stop and the two soldiers got off. Dave noticed they seem to walk in unchallenged.
The bus proved to be an excellent vantage point for the base. Although it was protected with barbed-wire fencing, there were no bunds to block the view. The big feature was the runway, which was wide and about a kilometre long – big enough, he estimated, to take large passenger jets. On the far side of the runway, in one corner, was a four-storey building, itself surrounded by security fencing and watchtowers, clearly the prison within the camp. Following the panorama to the right was a large hanger with a military transport plane facing inward, next to that a fuel storage area with three mobile tankers and a fire engine and finally the control tower. Below it, what looked like a Jetstream executive jet, a bigger passenger jet with twin engines mounted on the rear of the fuselage (probably a Comac ARJ21) and what looked like a Mi-24 helicopter gunship. On the nearside of the compound close to the road was a ten-storey tower block, presumably the garrison building, and a car park with half a dozen cars and two buses. In the far corner were eight new trucks, four he would describe as off-road ‘dumpers’. Surprisingly, there was no obvious signs of defensive capability, but just because it wasn’t visible didn’t mean it didn’t exist. And, talking of visibility, no trees or cover of any kind to allow undetected observation at the base.
Dave had pretended to have fallen asleep and asked the driver if he would let him off before they arrived at Timor Baglo, the next scheduled stop, and enquired when the next bus back would be passing.
While Dave and Jack’s encounter had been taking place, Fawaz had obtained vital intelligence as he recalled his own recent experience.
“It’s time we were moving,” Hafiz called to his son. “We’ll take the Land Cruiser; I’ll drive. Hanif has got other stuff to do this morning, and I don’t want to arrive at this meeting with a chauffeur.”
“Coming, Dad,” Fawaz called, quickly putting on a black gilet over his pressed white shirt.
He ran down the stairs to meet his father in the hall.
“Is this smart enough? You did say smart but casual.”
“You’ll do. The colonel will be uniformed, but Moussavi will be casual and I don’t know about the other guy…”
“What other guy?”
“Mr Ho – he runs the research base. I met his predecessor, Mr Chen, but he went home about three weeks ago – I’ve only spoken to him briefly.”
“Are you sure they won’t mind me attending your business meeting?”
Hafiz laughed. “Don’t worry about a thing. I spoke to them individually about it. They all agreed with my point of view.”
They set off on the Posyan road.
“Where are we meeting?” Fawaz asked.
“We were going to the governor mayor’s residence, but, as I told him you were coming, we agreed to change it to the garrison. It’s one of the newest in the country and its development has been the colonel’s pet project. I’ve seen him overseeing it from the time they laid the runway, and I think he always wants the opportunity to show it off.
“Anyway, what did you think of the guest house? Pretty good, isn’t it? I got the idea from a place I stayed at once on the Caspian. I’d rather build something of quality that people will pay a premium for, rather than some big monstrosity that sucks up money. I thought Eleheh would be right for you. She’s a smart girl and knows how to manage herself. From what I heard, she certainly took care of you!” He laughed again.
“I hope I will have the opportunity to see her again,” Fawaz replied.
“I am sure you will, but don’t go wasting your time and energy on her right now. There’s plenty of more important matters for you to focus on, as you will understand today.”
Traffic was light and they passed through Posyan village and beyond to the entrance to the base. A left turn took them to the gatehouse. Hafiz wound down the driver’s window and waved. The guard recognised the regular visitor and saluted. They didn’t need to speak because Hafiz knew exactly where to go, turning right onto the perimeter road which ran parallel to the public highway, only now the other side of the three-metre-high razor wire topped fence. The size of the compound meant Hafiz could drive at a steady 50kph for ten minutes before arriving at a car park in front of a ten-storey block. Parking in one of the hatched VIP spaces closest to the entrance, Hafiz, in a blue blazer and open-necked shirt, moved at a brisk pace with purpose, Fawaz stepping quickly to keep up.
“Al-Fouadi for the Colonel,” he barked at the duty soldier at the reception.
“Yes, sir. Please take the elevator to the tenth floor.”
Had the exit from the lift been a picture, it would have provided a perfect frame for a portrait of the colonel.
Rahman was a tall, naturally imposing figure with a waxed moustache and pitted olive skin, in the image of Clark Gable. He wore his dark green dress uniform with colours and epaulettes and with his name and the flag of the Islamic Republic.
He nodded his head in greeting, before giving a brotherly bear hug to Hafiz.
