Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1)

by Azam Hossain

  “English?” he asked, after awhile, raising his eyebrows to emphasis his question.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He tapped his cigarette over his ash tray, before returning his gaze toward me.

  “What is your name?” his English was good, despite being accented. I would guess that he had spent several years abroad in an English speaking country.

  “Willoughby,” I replied, “Damian Willoughby.”

  “Mr Willoughby.....what were you doing in that place where you were found?”

  “I got lost,” I lied.

  His face was expressionless, “Where were you hoping to go?”

  Thinking on the spot and looking at my inquisitor I said, “Pakistan...I’m on my way to India.” He raised his eyebrows for a second as if he found my answer bemusing. I was convinced that he was a trained interrogator. There was something forensic in his manner, precise, intelligent and systematic. He was laying a trap, filing away each of my answers, ready to quote them back at me, if I should contradict and thus condemn myself.

  “Where and when did you enter Azakistan Mr Willoughby?” he asked with cool detachment.

  I decided that my story would be that I was an eccentric masochistic Englishman who was travelling through Central Asia on foot, on his way to India for his own amusement.

  “It was yesterday,” I said confidently, “I’m afraid I can’t recall the place where I entered, or the time as it was at an unmarked spot.”

  “Where are your possessions? You do not expect me to believe that you are walking in Central Asia with no baggage?” he asked with a degree of derision.

  Good point thinks I; realising a quick riposte was called for.

  “You’re quite right. When I was climbing down the valley I slipped and fell a few metres and my larger backpack fell away. I must have hit my head and become disorientated. I’ve had a horrible headache all afternoon and must have walked on without it,” I explained and then I decided on the spur of the moment to get in questions of my own “Excuse me, but who are you? And why have I been detained? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Rostami gave a little sinister smirk as if he admired my boldness. The others may not have spoken English but they understood the defiant intonation with which I had spoken. One gave a cough of incredulity and the Tall man shook his head as if he could barely credit his ears.

  Rostami sat up somewhat straighter in his chair rising to the challenge, “My name is Colonel Mehrab Rostami. I’m in charge here,” he said with weary pride as if he thought it were something he felt I should have known, “....and this is Lieutenant Pahlavi,” indicating the man sitting next to him, whom I had hitherto referred to as the Tall one, “You have been detained because you were in a highly sensitive area.”

  “Now that we’ve been introduced Colonel may I have a drink of water and whatever other kindness you care to give me?” I requested, wanting to appeal to his sense of Persian hospitality. Rostami instructed the burly guard, who then poured me a cup of water and set it down before me. I sipped - it was at room temperature. I drank two cups quenching my thirst, after which the questioning resumed.

  “So after having a headache and losing your baggage what happened?”

  My voice croaked as I answered, such was my fatigue, “I did not know where I was. It was getting dark and cold and then it started to rain; at which point I came upon this tarpaulin cover erected high over this concrete thing on the floor,” I said attempting to sound as ignorant as I could, “I decided I needed shelter or else I would perish in the cold. I saw this door down some steps, opened it and sought shelter,” I said expansively holding the palms of my hands upwards in a gesture of candour and shrugging my shoulders in feigned innocence.

  “How long were you underground and what did you see?” he asked impatiently.

  “A few minutes - I only saw those T.V. screens when he came,” I said indicating Pahlavi.

  The sound of loud voices approaching the room from down the corridor could be heard. Just then the door was suddenly flung open. I turned in my seat and saw four men; two of whom wore the black turbans of the JFF, one of them I recognised as Mesud. The Persians seemed initially taken aback. Mesud went up to the table, leaned across at Rostami and started shouting at him, clearly furious at something and then with his right hand started pointing his finger at me. What had I done to upset him? And then I recalled that we’d killed seven JFF chaps, of whom I had personally killed four. No wonder he was furious! Pahlavi and Rostami tried to placate him. Mesud then turned to face me, stooped down and started spitting questions at me in Azaki or Farsi only inches from my face. I maintained my composure - which wasn’t that easy given his Halitosis; and tried to maintain the facade of a man who understood little and knew even less. He then looked upwards and seemingly made an oath to Allah and then brought his hand to draw his gun to vent his enmity. At that point several men moved to stop him. A couple of them put their hands on his arms and gradually steered Mesud toward the door, whilst he continued remonstrating. When they had left the room the guard who had been standing behind me closed the door, as the sound of Mesud’s voice drifted down the corridor.

  With silence and calm restored, Rostami seemed to compose himself after being upbraided so vehemently and then looked at me, “That man has had some of his men go missing. Are you responsible?”

  I laughed in disbelief, “This is getting absurd. I don’t even know that man.”

  He nodded cursorily as if he were expecting the denial and asked, “You said you are walking alone and lost your main baggage. That is correct?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “It is strange to me that the small backpack found on you was practically empty when you were arrested...,” he paused and let the statement hang in the air, “....do you have the luxury of being able to carry empty bags? It is not as if you have bearers to carry for you!”

  “As I told you I was concussed. When I stumbled and hit my head the contents must have fallen out,” I explained shrugging my shoulders.

  Rostami and Pahlavi examined my face, either in admiration or incredulity.

  “Look Colonel Rostami, I don’t wish to be rude but I’m bloody tired and hungry. I’ve had guns pointed at me, been handcuffed and locked up. I’ve answered enough of your questions! I’m a British Citizen. I demand that you release me at once!” I said in earnest.

  At this Rostami sat up straight and seemed to be quite intrigued, he conferred with Pahlavi and then turned to me, “Please forgive me. I shall make sure you are taken care of Mr Willoughby,” he oozed rather obsequiously, this only served to give me goose bumps for I had no idea what this betokened.

  “Do you have your passport?” he asked airily all of a sudden.

  I had to think quickly! The passport in the name of my alias, of course, did not contain any of the stamps that would corroborate my story. It would in fact condemn me as a liar.

  “No!” I said despondently, “I must have lost that with my baggage.”

  “Oh that is inconvenient,” he began in mock sympathy.

  “As I’ve lost my passport I wish to contact the nearest British Embassy,” I replied trying not to betray my unease.

  Rostami sat back folded his arms, smirked and shook his head admiring my effrontery, if effrontery it be. He slowly stood up, leaned over the table on which he rested his knuckles and towered over me, shaking his head very slowly from side to side, “You Eng....lish, are still so arrogant.....Mr Willoughby....if that really is your name, which I very much doubt.”

  I affected a look of determination as he gave me a long hard look before resuming his seat.

  “How dare you question my name,” I stormed rising to my feet as I looked down at Rostami, “I’ve never known such damned impudence. I want to be released do’ya hear.”

  “SIT...DOWN,” he roared angrily, his eyes fixed on me. I hesitated before obeying.

  “You have told me by your own words that you entered Azakistan at an u
nmarked part of the border,” began Rostami clearly enjoying himself, “You have crossed the border illegally and are therefore a foreign alien with no papers.”

  After a pause he asked “Do you know the greatness of Persia?”

  Such a damned strange question caught me unawares and my look must have said as much as Rostami did not wait for me to answer but continued, “In the sixth century BC the Persian Achaemenid Empire, ruled by Cyrus was the greatest empire the world had seen. It stretched from Libya in the west to India in the east, including all of the entire eastern Mediterranean, the Middle East, Anatolia and much of Central Asia,” he paused for effect.

  I realised that I would now have to endure a history lesson from a nationalist Persian.

  He continued, “For many centuries empires, kings and caliphates have risen and fallen, the boundaries of their territories always changing: Greeks, Arabs, Turks, Assassins, Mongols, Russians and of course you English; their dynasties including your British Empire have come and gone from this land....”

  Where the devil was all this was leading to? I wondered to myself.

  “.......we are now on the threshold of witnessing a new power coming up in the world Mr Willoughby; a new Persian Empire......an Iranian Empire!”

  What Jules had told me in Stockholm suddenly came to mind and now had a new found prescience that was frightening.

  “The Islamic Republic’s nurturing of resources, supporting our proxies in Palestine and Lebanon, political manoeuvrings, strategic planning and exploiting the ineptness of our enemies has laid the ground for a renaissance in post revolutionary Persian power....”

  I could not resist asking, “What ineptness?”

  He looked at me and immediately started answering without pausing to draw breath, as if he welcomed the opportunity for more rhetorical flourishes, “America’s invasion of Iraq has been good for us, the Shias are now in power there. In Afghanistan we have increased our influence and Israel’s clumsiness, cruelty and lack of pragmatism to make peace has given our cause more supporters and greater prestige in the Muslim world. We now have influence over a greater area of the Middle East and Central Asia than we have had for over 200 years.”

  “Are you Persian then?” I quipped.

  He looked at me stony faced and then his face turned to a gentle benign smile, before he made his admission, suppressing a guffaw, “Yes I am Persian and I am proud that I am.”

  He did not seem to see that the irony of his bold admission was that he was placing me under arrest as an illegal alien, in a country in which he himself was an illegal alien; the sheer cheek of it was outstanding. I was beginning to wish that I was in my cell, rather than being exposed to his megalomania; but I supposed I wouldn’t hear the end of it until I let him finish.

  “We have envisaged every scenario in our quest for building Iranian hegemony,” he continued his peroration raising his index finger to emphasis his point, “No one can stop us in our plans. We have bases that are well concealed and impenetrable to a military strike - in Natanz and Qom in Iran and elsewhere. If one is destroyed, another can take its place and our work will carry on. The world will tremble in awe when Persia’s power is revealed. Those Arab Sunnis will become our satraps, the Americans will be chased away and the Zionists will meet their reckoning.”

  He lit up another cigarette; his hand shaking, as if he needed it to calm his nerves after getting himself so excited.

  Rostami exhaled a cloud of smoke, “I have become quite excited,” he said apologetically waving his cigarette around, “but then I am an excitable Oriental.....forgive me, but I do not have the calm and the reserve of the English. You will forgive my outburst, but as I have burdened you with it - assuming you are not executed as a spy first, you will be detained until the revelations I have made to you are known to the world - and not before.”

  CHAPTER 26 – FLIGHT AND FOG.

  I was lead down a flight of stairs by four guards, two of whom were holding my arms and then along a corridor on the first floor. We stopped and the leading guard then unlocked one of the doors and pushed it open and then stood aside. Just at that moment one of them said something, which prompted the two holding my arms to swing me round so that my back was against the wall. The burly guard then clenched his fists and rammed his right fist into my stomach which had me wincing and crying out with pain. Had my arms not been held I should have collapsed on the floor. Just as I was coming to terms with this assault I felt another sharp pain on my right in the ribs as he punched me again. I yelled out, cursing and tried to wriggle free - but to no avail as they only tightened their grip. I then saw his right fist coming at my face; I tried to take evasive action by moving my head to the right. His fist still managed to catch enough of my face for the left side to sting with the impact. And before I knew what had happened I felt a sharp pain on the right of my face as his left fist made contact. He then lowered his fists and gestured with his head in the direction of the open door and gave an instruction in Farsi. This scurrilous attack had ended as quickly as it had begun. I was then unceremoniously pushed in through the open door, coughing, wheezing and holding my sides. Before I had time to turn around I could hear the door being slammed shut behind me and the key being turned. I nursed my sides whilst my head still throbbed with pain. I reflected on this unconscionable attack and cursed the cunts who had perpetrated it; no doubt carried out on Rostami’s orders.

  Well at least this cell was rather more salubrious then my previous one. It was a rather nondescript hotel room. Although luxurious compared with the Maintenance room – I cared not, for I had no intention of spending much time in here. I had resolved to escape! And with that the determination and ingenuity of my forebears at Colditz came to mind. It occurred to me that the comfort of this room might be indicative of the fact that I was now to be detained for an indefinite period. I used the bathroom and washed my hands and face; in particular splashing cold water on my face to reduce the swelling. Having largely recovered from the worst of my assault I examined the windows; it was still dark the time was 03.41hrs. But as I looked closer I noticed to my dismay that there were bars on the windows. I opened the windows as far as I could, which was only a few inches before the frame hit the bars. As I did so a waft of cold fresh air permeated the room. I stuck my hand through the open window and grabbed one of the bars and tried to move it, but alas it was hopeless. I turned round to face the bed, which looked very inviting for I felt exceedingly tired. But sleep was an indulgence I couldn’t afford - if I valued my life and liberty.

  If I could not escape through the window then there was only one other way to escape and that was through the door. Was there a guard standing outside? I knocked hard on the door and called out to see if I would get a response. None was forthcoming. The door as far as I could tell was double locked. It would have been nice to have had a silencer. I grabbed a pillow and got out my Glock and closely examined exactly where the locks on the door were. I placed the pillow against the part of the frame where the lower lock was and held it there with my left hand; aimed the Glock with my right, with the pillow between the gun and the lock. I had no notion to what degree the pillow would muffle the sound of the shot - there was only one way to find out. I lightly placed the index finger of my right hand against the trigger and checked my aim; the exhortation “he who dares....” came to me. I momentarily closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. There was dull thud. I opened my eyes. I smiled, for I was confident that even if people were sleeping in the neighbouring rooms they would not have awoken. I threw the pillow a few feet away and checked the lock. The door frame had splintered where the bullet had penetrated and there was the slightest trace of black singe marks where the lock had been. At my feet there were tiny shards of the splintered door frame and part of the lock. I picked up the pillow and repeated the exercise slightly higher up on the frame where the second lock was. Again the same dull thud sound. I discarded the pillow. The same result. The debris crunched under foot as I grabbed the hand
le and gently pulled; the door moved away from the frame just a fraction. I pulled a little harder and the door was released, as part of the frame creaked and there was the crunch of wood as part of the frame protruded out of its place. I opened the door wide enough to stick my head out and looked in both directions down the corridor. There was no one. And just as importantly there was no sound of commotion to suggest that anyone had heard my shots.

  I tucked my Glock into the waist of my trousers for quick access and stepped out into the corridor closing the door behind me. I walked as quietly as I could as I headed to the stairs. When I reached the ground floor I peered through the window of the stairwell door. I slowly pushed the door and entered a short dark corridor, which lead to the lobby where the main entrance was. When I got there to my consternation I saw one of the guards – the one who had opened the door to the Maintenance room. He was sleeping in an armchair, snoring loudly; his machine gun was placed by his side on the floor. He was alone. I recalled when the front door was opened for us, how loud the unlocking of the door had been. I couldn’t risk waking him. I could have dispatched him in his sleep with my knife and then opened the door, but the thought of killing a humble guard in his sleep seemed so abhorrent, that I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it - for my conscience wouldn’t wear it.

  I walked back down the corridor, past the stairwell to the rear of the building. Here there was a little recess containing a door with windows on either side. It was still dark. I cupped my hands against the windows and with my face against them, looked outside. It was a small yard enclosed by a short fence, beyond which were the wastes of Azakistan. I tried the door - but it was locked. By now I was cursing atrociously. How could I escape into Iran, when I couldn’t even make it out of the building? I then got a grip on my emotions and noticed that the window was large enough to crawl through. I turned the handle and pushed; the window squeaked as it opened a fraction. I then pushed harder and opened it to its full extent, thus inviting in a waft of cold air. The ledge I judged was about four feet off the floor; I rested my hands on the ledge and lifted myself off the ground and manoeuvred myself around so that I sat on the ledge. I brought my legs up to my chest and then swivelled round so that I was facing out of the window and then let my legs drop so that they rested against the exterior wall of the building and then pushed myself off so that I landed on the ground. I turned around and pushed the window closed. I then looked around and listened – there was nothing but silence at this hour. I walked around the side of the building and then approached the front.