Smoke and Mirrors (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Then I’ll have to come like this.’

  She looked like she couldn’t have cared less. She moved away and started a quick descent of the stairwell. Barefoot, he went after her.

  She didn’t stop for checks at the front entrance to the building, which told him all he needed to know about her urgency. He opened the front passenger door as she ran to the boot.

  ‘No. In here,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ And it was forceful enough to still her. ‘Enough with confinement. If there’s trouble coming, I’m not getting trapped in anywhere.’ He could just about make out her scowling in the gloom.

  ‘The back of the car, then. And get down.’

  He accepted the compromise.

  She drove fast and handled the car well, or so it seemed to him from the footwells of the rear seats.

  ‘Shouldn’t you slow down?’ he said. ‘Won’t driving fast attract attention?’

  She did not answer him but he felt the speed drop off.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘They found Barid?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Not what, who. Barid is you. The man who took your place.’

  He paused before saying, ‘Where?’

  ‘Boarding the plane.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘He will be tortured. He will tell them what he knows. They will expect him to know more. They will torture him further and then they will kill him.’ It was matter of fact, but there was an undertone of bitter resentment.

  ‘Then they will know about me?’

  The car made a sharp turn and the woman shouted something at someone or something or herself or the situation or at him.

  ‘They will know what happened today. They will know that a member of the UN delegation was switched at the last moment for an Iranian national. They will not know why because Barid did not know why.’

  ‘What will they guess?’

  ‘They will assume you are a threat to Iran.’

  So now they had his passport, he thought. And his mugshot would be on the clipboard of every police officer and security detail within a couple of hours at best. He bit his tongue. No good could come of complaining about the way things had turned out to a woman who clearly regarded him as a liability, a danger, an imposition.

  His mind strayed back to something she’d said in the airport toilet’s supply store, ‘if they come for us, if they get close, I will kill you myself without a second thought. I will do it to protect my family and the families of those who are risking their lives to help.’ He had believed her and wondered how close they were to her keeping her promise, whether she was driving him to a bullet and a shallow desert grave. In the short time he seriously considered this he resolved to watch his back with his new ‘friends’.

  ‘And what will they guess?’ he repeated.

  ‘It is possible they might think the switch was made to get Barid out of the country.’

  ‘How possible?’

  She ignored the question. ‘It is more likely that when they find out who you are and what you have been involved in before this, they will realise the switch was made to infiltrate you into Iran.’

  ‘My passport was not in my real name. That person doesn’t exist,’ he said with some positivity.

  ‘That can only make it worse. They will suspect you were here from the start for espionage.’

  ‘Good. Because I’m not, am I?’

  ‘There is nothing good about this situation,’ she snapped. ‘A man is going to die for you. And that will be only the start of the violence. VEVAK are thorough, determined and they enjoy their work. They will gratefully accept any half-reason to round up their critics and ‘question’ them.’

  Avoiding his natural inclination to tell her that a man was going to die because of a stupid, flawed scheme that she was party to, quite possibly an architect of, he said, ‘What is VEVAK?’

  ‘The primary intelligence agency of the Islamic Republic of Iran. They exist to make sure people like us – people who seek constitutional change in Iran – seldom get the opportunity to speak out. And they do not like foreigners meddling in our country.’ She sounded like she didn’t, either.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Barid knows the building you were waiting in. He has been there. We have to assume they will come, too. You are being moved to a location Barid was not aware of.’

  ‘In Qom?’

  ‘Yes, in Qom. To try to leave the city tonight would be foolish and dangerous.’

  ‘How big is Qom?’ He was worrying that if he were stuck in a small place and the authorities had the resources and were determined then he would still be a rat only in a bigger barrel.

  ‘There are over a million people living here,’ she said, and he felt she knew why he’d asked.

  She said nothing more and he left her to concentrate on her driving while his mind teased at the threads of his anxieties like an old, bedridden patient picks at the fraying strands of his blanket.

  He saw nothing of their progress other than the upper storeys of some of the taller buildings. It was enough to tell him they had changed districts and that they had moved upmarket. The buildings he did see were more modern. And then there were street lights. The road surfaces were less pitted, smoother.

  He had questions for her but she emitted an aura that did not invite them. She spoke on the telephone once – a short and heated exchange with a tinny male voice.

  When he got fed up with the silent treatment, he said, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Would it mean anything to you if I told you?’

  ‘What is your problem?’ he said, and instantly regretted it.

  She stamped on the brakes and the car skidded noisily to a halt. He thought they’d strayed into a roadblock until he saw her face snarling at him from between the front seats.

  ‘My problem is you, Englishman. You, your kind and the trouble you bring to my country and my people.’

  He levered himself up to sit on the back seat. ‘Your country? If your country had not involved itself in international terrorism in international waters I wouldn’t be here. I lost a wife and child because of your country. Your country has connived to kidnap an innocent family just so that it can advance its atomic energy programme. According to you, two of them – one a child – are now dead; one is separated from its mother in an orphanage while your country forces her mother to work for it. I can only imagine how damaged those two poor sods are. So don’t talk to me about bringing trouble to your country, lady. If I had my way we’d bomb you and your kind back to the Stone Age and think we’d done the world a favour.’

  Finished and furious, he let himself out onto the street and looked about. There was not another pedestrian in sight, although cars were passing them.

  Then she was on the pavement. In the street lighting she looked more worried than angry. ‘What are you doing? Get back in the car.’ She looked up and down the street.

  He stood and glowered at her.

  ‘You’ll get us both killed, you fool.’

  ‘With you amateurs running things, it’s only a matter of time anyway. I can find an embassy. I’ll take my chances with them.’ He began walking away from her.

  In a couple of quick paces she was at his side. She grabbed him and turned him with a surprising strength. ‘Get in the car.’ Something short and glinting appeared in her hand. ‘Get in the car, or I’ll kill you here.’

  He stared her down and still cars passed them. He was aware of one or two slowing but no one stopped.

  He flicked his gaze over her shoulder and she realised they had company, possibly trouble. She turned her head to see what had caught his attention. In a moment he closed the gap between them and had his hand around her wrist before she understood he’d played her for a fool. She squirmed and then tried to hit him with her free arm. He deflected the punch easily and with a swift kick swept her legs from under her. She hit the ground hard and grunted as the air was f
orced out of her.

  A car slowed almost to a stop. He smiled, raised a hand and waved. He bent to help up his companion, who must have simply tripped, and then the car moved away.

  He snatched up the knife. He propelled her back to the car and into the driver’s seat. He went around to the other side and got in next to her.

  She was breathing heavily and her eyes burned with her hatred for him. He suddenly didn’t care.

  He said, ‘If you’re so anti me and what I stand for, why are you helping me?’

  ‘I do what I’m told. And I’m not helping you, we’re using you, remember? I care nothing about you, this woman or her child. I care about Iran. I care about the people of Iran. I care only about what you can do for us.’

  ‘Fair enough. I appreciate your honesty. Now, just so we’re clear, I don’t give a shit about you either. I don’t give a shit about Iran or its people. I’m here to do a job and get out. Oh, and if you ever pull a knife on me again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’ He folded the steel of the switchblade away and tucked it in his pocket.

  ***

  5

  They arrived at their destination ten minutes later. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other for the remainder of the journey. She got out of the car without speaking and crossed the road. He followed. She turned down one of the ubiquitous narrow alleys of the city and was swallowed up in darkness. He followed, treading warily. At the end of the passageway a weak bulb under a metal covering illuminated a bare and rusting steel door. She banged on it and the sound reverberated down and around the enclosed space. A dog started barking nearby.

  The door swung open and they went in. A frail old man who wasn’t interested in them stood aside. She took the steel stairs two at a time and he trailed her. The raised pattern of the metalwork cut into his bare feet, making him wince. Three months before he wouldn’t have felt a thing. He was going soft.

  At a break on the stairs, one floor up, she pushed through another steel door and they were in some kind of manufacturing environment. The floor space looked about the size of a five-a-side pitch. She walked between sleeping, dusty machines in the dim light cast by the occasional overhead strip light and headed towards a glass-walled office at the rear.

  Hassan sat behind a large untidy desk. He looked up at the noise of their approach and his features in the light of the small desk lamp were drawn and troubled.

  If he sensed they’d had a spat, he didn’t mention it. He had more important matters to concern him.

  ‘Barid is dead.’

  The woman sat in the only other chair. ‘What? How can you be sure? It’s too early.’

  For answer he turned the monitor of his computer to face them. A YouTube video began to play. There were three men in the video. Two carried assault weapons, their faces obscured by keffiyehs. The man in the middle was being supported by the two armed men who were either side of him. His head lolled on his chest so the camera could not see his face. But Acer did not need to. He was instantly recognisable from his clothing – the clothing Acer had been wearing earlier that day at the airport.

  Acer felt his throat dry up. There were dark red stains on the light fabric of the shirt. The cargo trousers were torn and marked. A voice gave an instruction in Persian. One of the gunmen took hold of the man’s hair and showed his face to the camera. He was almost unrecognisable as the handsome young man Acer had traded places and clothes with. He was mumbling through swollen blood-caked features. His head was allowed to fall back.

  The man was forced down onto his knees. Another man came into the picture. He was taller than the others by a head. His face was also obscured by the traditional headgear of the region. He chanted something loudly and the two men either side of Barid repeated it. He turned and spoke into the camera. Acer looked at the others for a translation but they were both irresistibly drawn to the screen.

  The speaker withdrew a pistol from his waistband and went to stand behind the kneeling man. He looked towards the camera and shouted something. Then he touched the barrel to the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger. There was nothing fake about the dynamics of the effect. The man was released to topple forward onto what remained of his face. The video stopped. Acer looked away.

  An ugly quiet settled on the small room. Somewhere outside a generator was humming.

  ‘Is this VEVAK’s doing?’ said Acer.

  Hassan nodded. He returned to his seat the other side of the desk and swung the monitor back around to face him.

  ‘How much did he know?’

  ‘Nothing of why you are here.’

  ‘But he knows both of you? Knew both of you?’

  ‘Not our names. Not our identities. Not this place. He was just a volunteer recommended to us – a university student who wanted to help our cause. Someone prepared to do so without asking questions. To risk his life for his beliefs.’

  ‘And his life is what it cost him,’ she said, and there was no mistaking the bitterness.

  Acer looked at her. She’d lost her mantle of antagonism. It had been replaced by something defeated looking. And he didn’t like it.

  ‘Well let’s not let him die for nothing, then,’ said Acer. ‘According to you, he couldn’t have told them anything. If they have my passport that won’t tell them anything either. All they do know is that one of the UN delegation, for whatever reason, has decided to stay in Iran. They’ll have my description but the keffiyeh will help to keep me anonymous. I need sunglasses. You were right,’ he said in the woman’s direction, ‘my eyes could be a problem. Other than that the ball is back with us. I still need shoes. Did you get a camera?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hassan, and it was like he wasn’t really engaged in the conversation.

  The woman remained quiet and just as distant.

  Acer said, ‘You can’t bring him back. Dead is dead. He died for something he obviously believed in. Not many of us get the opportunity for that noble honour.’

  ‘I’ll see if there are any shoes in the workers’ locker room that might fit you,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  When she had left the office, Hassan said, ‘Has something happened between you two?’

  ‘We had a difference of opinion. I think we’ve cleared the air. I believe we can still work together.’

  Hassan said no more about it. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘After watching that? Not particularly. But I know I’ll need to eat and sleep. We’re all going to need to rest and refuel.’

  ‘I shall organise it. You will have to stay here now. There is accommodation on the floor above us. I don’t like having you at my factory. It endangers many people. But there is little else I can do.’

  ‘Can I use the computer to send an email to London?’

  ‘It would be best if you did not. All Internet traffic is monitored. It could start a trail that could lead back to here.’

  Acer had to accept this, although his knowledge of such possibilities was negligible. ‘How did you know about the YouTube video?’

  ‘A phone call from a friend. VEVAK make it known when they have something to show us. It is a way for them to keep us informed of their practices. And they enjoy it, of course. Such barbarism has its effect on the morale of the opposition.’

  The woman came back in holding a pair of open-toed sandals. She threw them down at Acer’s feet. He did not immediately go for them.

  ‘That’s all there is.’

  He sighed and put them on. At least they fitted. But they’d be next to useless for running, creeping around or fighting in.

  Hassan showed him the flat above. It was only a slight improvement on the last place. It had the feel of a temporary overnight stopover – a bolt-hole. Somewhere for a busy factory owner to get his head down when the working day dragged on too late and he couldn’t be bothered to go home before another early start.

  Food was organised and arrived. Acer was left alone, with the promise that they would be back early in the morning to discuss
a way forward. There was a shower room and before he went to bed he used it, despite knowing that the woman would have objected. The clothes smelled so bad that he hand-washed those too and slept naked as they hung to dry.

  He managed only a few hours sleep. The unfamiliarity, the situation, the questions, the anxiety and the noises from the street below kept his mind working until long after midnight. It seemed that he’d only just nodded off before the Azan – the Islamic call to prayer – woke him in the early hours of the next morning as a nearby mosque and then others across the city began their evocative wailing.

  A potent memory was stirred and rather than fight it he gave himself up to it. He crossed to the open window in the darkness, rested his arms on the sill, and while the neighbourhood mostly slumbered on in the cooler temperatures of the dawn he listened and he remembered. The experience proved to be a deep and moving reminder of his brief but intense time in Istanbul with Eda, someone with whom he had wanted another bite at life.

  Inevitably, his thoughts turned to wondering about the circumstances surrounding her sudden death in a car accident while he had been back in England clearing his name and exposing political corruption at the highest levels. He’d tried to draw a line under that short chapter of his life, but the more he thought about it, as he often found himself doing, the more he felt cheated. He understood that he had unfinished business in Turkey. For him and for the memory of her.

  The grim thoughts threatened to spoil his sentimental reverie. He turned his back on Qom, went back to the lumpy bed and lay awake pondering his new problems and whether he’d get out of this in one piece or whether his luck, that commodity Crouch of MI6 valued so much, had finally run out.

  ***

  6

  ‘The British are trying again,’ said the caller. ‘They will become more desperate for news the longer their man and their people on the ground here – the traitors – remain out of contact.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Iranian intelligence officer. ‘Desperation can lead to mistakes, errors of judgment. Who knows what other traitors we might uncover? Monitor the situation. Anything you hear that you think I should know, call me immediately, day or night, no matter the time.’