by Andy McNab
Even the Russian state media, which almost always toed the party line, had cried foul. Not that it had made any difference. Every oligarch knew his continued wellbeing depended on two things: where he happened to be sitting when the Soviet Union reverted to good old Mother Russia; and who he happened to know in the corridors of power.
Like most of his oligarch mates, this particular boy had been in the right place at the right time in 1991 – so much so that after the initial flurry of interest in the deal, the Russian media gave him and his business projects a wide berth. There wasn’t even a name check or picture of him.
M3C had offices in Moscow and production facilities along the river Volga between Moscow and Rybinsk. It also had its own weapons proving ground, a closed-off area inside a military training ground the size of Wales, to the east of a place called Vologda, about five hundred K to the north-east.
My next-door neighbour started to fart like a trooper. I reached up and adjusted the air-conditioner.
PART FIVE
46
The Airbus’s first encounter with the Imam Khomeini International Airport runway wasn’t its last – it continued to bounce for several hundred metres before the pilot slammed on the reverse thrust. The fun and games were all lost on my neighbour. He jolted awake with a final snort, shot to his feet before the plane had even turned off the runway and started rummaging around in the overhead locker.
I stared out of the window. The Imam Khomeini International Airport had been built to commemorate the mastermind of 1979’s Islamic Revolution. The blurb in the seat pocket in front of me said it had opened officially in May 2004 and was designed to take over from Mehrabad as Tehran’s main airport for foreign air travel. Mehrabad, in the meantime, had been designated as Tehran’s principal domestic airport. Gripping stuff. Kettle would have been on the edge of his seat.
From my brief sweep of our surroundings as the plane trundled along the taxiway it was clear that IKIA was only half finished, whatever it said on the tin. Much of it was still a building site. Diggers tore along the perimeter fence, sending up clouds of dust behind them. Men with hod-loads of bricks over their shoulders stared at the plane as it bumped past them. The skeletons of half-completed buildings rose from the dirt on either side of the runway.
Beyond the fence, I could see nothing but scrub and rubble. Nobody was ever going to contest the building of another runway here; it might only have been twenty miles south of Tehran, but in reality it was in the middle of nowhere.
In the distance, half hidden by shit kicked up by the construction work, were rows of military transport aircraft – a hallmark of the developing-world welcome. There, among them, parked in front of a modern, single-storey building, was a gleaming white Dassault Falcon 7X.
As soon as the aircraft rocked to a stop, everybody sprang to their feet to follow the example of my farting friend, who was already elbowing his way down the aisle and powering up his mobile. I waited until the plane was three-quarters empty before I got out of my seat and pulled down my day-sack.
As soon as I stepped off the jetway into the terminal I could see big brother was watching me. There were CCTV cameras everywhere. I tucked behind a group of passengers from my flight and scanned the faces coming the other way. All I got back was a shed-load of gawping from suspicious-looking Iranians. I hadn’t seen a Westerner since we’d stopped off at Dubai.
The inside of the terminal was as modern as anything I’d ever been in. My Timberlands squeaked on the polished marble as I followed the signs in Farsi and English to Immigration.
The military presence was low-key until I got to Passport Control. Iranians and Arabs were directed one way; I was sent the other. I followed a roped-off walkway until eventually I ended up facing a stern-looking woman in her twenties seated in a glass booth. It was flanked by two AKs, each with a green-uniformed squaddie firmly attached. I glanced over my shoulder. The welcome was exclusively for me. I knew the best way to deal with situations like this was to look intimidated. People in booths like to wield power over others. It makes them feel good.
The woman adjusted the arms of her thick black specs beneath her thick black head covering and beckoned me towards her. ‘Passport.’
I handed it over. Now I was closer I could see her face was more Cindy Crawford than Ugly Betty. She had smooth skin, a small, slightly upturned nose, and gleaming white, perfectly uniform teeth. She looked so perfect she could have been chiselled. And, coming from Tehran, she might very well have been. More plastic-surgery and sex-change operations were performed here than in LA or Bangkok – another useless nugget I’d picked up among the stuff I’d learnt last night from Julian’s int pack.
She looked up from my passport. No smile, just disdain. ‘Your business, Mr Manley?’
First trick question. She was already holding my passport: the London media visa stated exactly what I was here for.
‘I’m here for IranEx – the aerospace and defence exhibition. I’m a journalist.’
She seemed to take it in her stride. She slid the passport under a scanner and stared into space while her computer crunched away at the data.
The two AK-holders glared at me as if I was George W himself. But that was OK: they got as much bullshit fed to them about us as we did about them. I just carried on playing dumb, not getting too smart, and looking a little bit scared.
Bang, bang.
I glanced down. She was stamping my passport.
‘Enjoy your stay in the Islamic Republic. Now I need your fingerprints.’ She pointed to a small box covered with a green rag. They used the same system in the US: place a finger on the glass tray and she’d take a picture. The only difference here was the absence of wipes, just the same bit of rag for everyone.
47
Like Iran’s defence industry, my little light reading in Tufnell Park last night had told me, its internal security apparatus shouldn’t be underestimated. Not much was known about Tehran’s counter-intelligence set-up, but what was, wasn’t good. No single organization appeared to have complete control. That was good to hear: it meant there were gaps in the system. The problem was, I didn’t know where the gaps were.
There were three groups I had to worry about. The first was MoIS, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, or Vevak, as it was known in Farsi. It had around fifteen thousand full-time members all doing their meanest for the Republic. It had lost some of its powers in the 1990s following a scandal in which a truckload of Iranian dissidents, mainly Sunni Kurds, had ended up very dead – a fact that made even the lapdog Iranian press sit up and complain. Perhaps it had occurred to them that they might be next in the queue. To show it was still on the side of the people, the Iranian government drummed up some charges against what it called ‘rogue elements’ in Vevak and, after some ritual bloodletting, everybody went away happy. Except the rogue elements. They’d ended up facing Mecca, but six feet under.
In the meantime, the power of the second mob, the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps Intelligence Branch, had increased. Much smaller than Vevak, the IRGC Intelligence Branch were fearsome in their loyalty to the state – they were the Iranian equivalent of the Gestapo, in effect, and swore death to the enemies of the Islamic Revolution. I decided to try to give them a wide berth.
Then there was the Basij Resistance Force, a volunteer army of around a million people, mostly old men, who had volunteered after completing their military service, or others too young to join the army. A bit like the Hitler Youth, I supposed.
The Basij had a history of martyr-style suicide attacks dating back to the Iran-Iraq war, which had claimed a million lives on both sides during the 1980s. These lads were the ultimate guided weapon. They’d run across enemy minefields to clear them, or load up with explosives and detonate themselves on top of an Iraqi tank or trench.
Like the Stasi in East Germany, the Basij were also the ‘eyes and ears’ of the revolution. Put a foot wrong or badmouth the government and, chances were, someone, somewhere would
tell the Basij. The next thing you knew, the lynch mob would be at your door.
The police force comprised around forty thousand regulars under the control of the Ministry of the Interior, but compared to Vevak, the IRGC and the Basij, these guys were pushovers. And even though the mullahs appeared to view women with complete contempt, it didn’t stop them recruiting tens of thousands into the ranks of the secret police.
I wondered where Ms Perfect fitted into this picture. Perhaps the Tourist Board corps.
My bag was the only one left on the carousel by the time I reached the baggage hall. It didn’t look as if it had been tampered with, but of course it had. Otherwise they would have let me take it on board as hand luggage, as I’d planned to.
I walked out into the arrivals hall and spotted a tall guy in his early thirties, in a very shiny black leather jacket, holding up a placard. He had a neatly groomed goatee and was so thin his Adam’s apple looked as though it was fighting to get out of his neck. A pair of round, wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his incongruously bulbous nose. The scrawl on the placard read: ‘Jame Munley – travel from Dubai’.
48
Majid Forsheh was from the Ministry of Information. He’d been assigned to me at the personal behest of the minister, he proudly informed me, to attend to my every need for the duration of my stay in the Islamic Republic.
One look at Majid, with his white shirt buttoned all the way up and no tie – an evil Western invention – told me he wasn’t just here to help me on and off the buses. Everything about him reeked of security. But what had I expected? If it was an open secret that defence exhibitions were crawling with spooks, then it was a foregone conclusion that I was going to get a minder. But that was OK, because I had no choice. Getting what Julian wanted – and, more importantly, what I wanted – was what I was here for. I’d just have to work around him.
Majid insisted on carrying my case as we walked to his car. ‘Did you have a pleasant trip, Mr Munley?’
‘Why don’t you call me Jim?’ I gave him a five-hundred-watt smile. ‘Fantastic, mate. Great passengers, good food and first-rate in-flight entertainment. I’ll never be touching British Airways again.’
Majid beamed like a lottery winner. ‘And what do you think of our new Imam Khomeini International Airport?’
‘I think the Ayatollah would have approved. Beats our Terminal Five hands down.’
‘Yes, it is most impressive, is it not, Mr Munley?’
We’d established, then, that Majid didn’t do sarcasm – and that he didn’t like the name Jim. Maybe I should have kept it more formal.
We stopped by a Mercedes E-class that had pulled over in a bus lane. A guy in a short-sleeved white shirt – buttoned up, of course – had been pretending to read a newspaper as he sat behind the wheel. He awoke with a start when Majid sprang the boot and shot out to help with my bags long after the moment had passed. He was in his sixties and balding, but had forearms the size of logs and shoulder muscles that rippled under his shirt. Wrestling was a big thing here, and this old boy looked like he could still go a few rounds.
Majid sat in the passenger seat. I got in the back. The airport’s public-address system called the faithful to prayer just as the sun began to set over the distant mountains.
‘I expect you are tired, Mr Munley, so we will go straight to your hotel. You are booked into the Bandar, are you not? Three stars. A very nice hotel, very central. Your people chose well.’ I caught his smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘This is your first time in Iran?’
My first time, I acknowledged. But on the basis of what I’d seen so far, it certainly wouldn’t be my last.
He turned around and shook my hand. ‘Then welcome. I hope you will enjoy your stay here very much.’
The wrestler pulled out of the bus lane and almost ran into a taxi. There was a screech of brakes and a sudden whiff of bubbling rubber, then an angry exchange between the two drivers. But one glance at Majid and the other guy got right back into his box.
That told me just about everything I needed to know. I’d been placed very firmly in the tender loving care of the IRGC’s Intelligence Branch.
49
‘The one and only difficulty with our new airport, Mr Munley, is its distance from the city centre. It will take us more than an hour to reach the hotel. No doubt you have heard about our traffic, Mr Munley.’
And the pollution, I felt like telling him, but thought better of it. Not that Majid took my silence as an invitation to shut up. I was getting the full Thomas Cook treatment.
‘Fortunately, we have a very good modern metro system. There are three different types of taxi, too. The yellow metered ones are best. There are also white non-metered taxis that ply certain routes, almost like a bus. And then there are private cars run as taxis, mostly by people in their spare time to supplement their income…’
He waved a hand theatrically. ‘But you don’t need to worry about any of this, Mr Munley, because for as long as you are here you are our guest and all your travel needs will be taken care of. The driver and I will pick you up at your hotel in the morning, I will be your escort at IranEx, and if you have any desire to see our city, then we will be only too happy to take you anywhere you please. My government wants your stay in Iran to be a memorable one.’
‘That’s great, Majid, thank you.’
These lads are OK, nine times out of ten. They’re very much like me in a way, victims of circumstance. Most think differently from what they say about the place they live because they have to live there. Most just toe the line and try to get by as best they can. The nutters who believe all the bullshit can normally be sniffed out very quickly. And even they eventually get to realize it’s all bollocks, no matter what side you’re on.
‘It is important to us that you see Iran in its true light. As a man of words, Mr Munley, I am sure you will already know that Iran is not the place it is characterized to be by certain sections of the West’s media. We are an open, democratic society and our only interest is in fostering peace.’
Try telling that, I thought, to the relatives of almost a hundred dissidents killed by Iranian assassins outside Iran in the thirty years since the revolution – or of the victims of the two hundred or so terrorist attacks around the world that had supposedly been given the backing of Altun and his mates.
Shia militias had been supplied by Iran, via Altun, with highly advanced IED technology, specifically to target our troops in southern Iraq. Missile technology was supplied on a regular basis to Hamas and Hezbollah. The list was endless. The missiles for Hamas and Hezbollah were aimed at Israel, even though there were tens of thousands of Iranian Jews, some of whom were in the Iranian parliament. They saw Israel as Zionist, not Jewish.
I treated Majid to another broad smile and turned my head towards the window. That’s just the way it is. If this lot weren’t the bad guys, then someone else would be. And I wasn’t looking for a cuddle.
We left the airport approach and drove past a hotel decorated with dozens of flags, not one of which I recognized. As we joined the newly tarmacked road for Tehran, I noticed some bodies standing on the roof of a brand-new multi-storey car park at the airport perimeter. They looked like soldiers or police, some kind of security presence. One was wearing a peaked cap.
There were three of them. The one with the cap had what looked like a radio pressed to his ear. Another was talking into a mobile phone, and the third was using binoculars to scan the runway.
Majid followed my gaze and shook his head. ‘Do you have these people in your country, Mr Munley?’
‘Sure. We have security everywhere. Brits are the most spied-on citizens in the world.’
The corners of Majid’s eyes creased in confusion. He looked almost hurt. ‘Mr Munley, I am not talking about surveillance. The people on this roof are interested in the aircraft that take off and land from this airport. It is their – how do you say? Their hobby?’
50
We hit the traffic in the
southern suburbs and ground to a complete standstill. With petrol at about 5p a gallon, why would anyone bother to walk?
The road signs were in Farsi and English, and everywhere I looked I saw Paykans – the Iranian-built copy of the Hillman Hunter, a car that went out of production in Britain forty years ago. My dad used to have one when I was a kid. They only stopped making these things here in 2005. Not a moment too soon, judging by the shit coming out of their exhaust and adding to the thick smog. They looked like dustbins on wheels alongside the brand-new Renaults, Volvos, VWs and all the latest Japanese models on display.
As we trickled along, Tehran became more and more of a contradiction. One moment we were passing modern glass-and-steel office blocks that could have come straight from Dubai, the next I was staring into decrepit alleyways or at water-streaked concrete tenements that could have been designed by Stalin. And ten seconds later I could almost have been back in the Mall of the Emirates. Posters for Levis, iPods and Sanyo TVs were everywhere. Britney and Hannah Montana filled CD-shop windows.
Fast-food outlets sold Thai and Chinese on plastic trays. Young men wore Western clothes and shared hookahs at out-door restaurants. Outsiders might have expected angry crowds ready to stone any woman who showed a bit of ankle, but I saw plenty with their headscarves pushed back – a trick that must have kept them within the rules laid down by the ayatollahs, but only just.
If I was ever in any doubt about exactly where I was, the giant murals of Iran’s leaders, past and present, were constantly there to remind me. Top of the pops was Khomeini, whose face scowled back at me from the sides of buildings in every square we inched through. Next in the popularity stakes was the present Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, and behind him the president, Ahmadinejad – the lad who had made windcheaters the must-have clothing item in this neck of the woods, and who’d threatened to wipe Israel and the West right off the map. The only way I remembered his name was by pronouncing it ‘Armoured-dinner-jacket’, but I didn’t tell Majid.
