by Oliver Tidy
Niki returned late morning with food and parcels. They pushed the maps and their scribbling to one side and spoke of other things while they shared the little feast of simple traditional food. Both Iranians were understandably reluctant to discuss themselves in any detail, citing the quite reasonable and sobering logic that the less Acer knew of them the less he would be able to reveal under interrogation should that eventuality arise.
Hassan saw no harm in disclosing that he’d been educated in England. Although he declined to name the place, Acer gathered it had been a fee-paying institution.
After they had eaten and the detritus of the meal was cleared away, Niki placed the parcels she’d brought on the table.
‘Some clothes,’ she said, in answer to Acer’s enquiring look. ‘You cannot continue to look like that.’
Without ceremony she tipped the contents out and Acer was dismayed. They were going to dress him in the traditional costume of the region, like a Sheik. She held up the bright white voluminous garment.
‘Are you sure it’s big enough?’ he said.
Either she wasn’t attuned to sarcasm or she had no time for it. She held up more items of clothing. In one hand was a coat hanger on which hung a chador – the full black traditional costume of the region worn by pious, dutiful wives, and in the other a complementary black niqab. And despite his reservations for the charade, Acer felt a splinter of confidence puncture the shroud of his misgivings.
‘You need to try them on now,’ she said. She laid out a white ghutra – the traditional Arab headdress for men – and a black agal – the band that would secure the ghutra in place. Next to these she placed dark glasses.
When they were satisfied with his look, Hassan said, ‘Now, there are things to arrange. I will be back later, when it is dark. I will bring more food. Is there anything else you require?’
‘I’d like a weapon.’
Hassan frowned. ‘I said before: you cannot hope to shoot your way out of Iran.’
‘I heard you. But maybe I’ll be able to shoot my way out of a bit of trouble. I’d like the option and I think, with what is involved, with what is at stake, I have that right.’
Hassan sighed resignedly before saying, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
***
8
Crouch had suffered a troubled night’s sleep. His day so far had not improved his mood. Acer had now been officially out of contact – disappeared without a trace – for over twenty-four hours. That in itself did not have to be disastrous. But the group who British intelligence had long relied upon as a sympathetic partner inside Iran – Acer’s contacts – had not been in communication. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
Despite the reports that the man who had tried to get on the plane to Vienna was not Acer, enquiries had been made to see whether a British citizen had been apprehended in Tehran. The British were curtly assured not. There was no information available anywhere to suggest what might have happened to the man who had been detained. Indeed, there seemed no local record of the event, official or otherwise. This only made Crouch more suspicious. The whole thing had the familiar ring of an operation by local agencies – a last minute swoop, knowing that there was nothing any one of the inspection team could do with the engines of their charter flight out of Iran already fired up.
And because of relations between the countries of Britain and Iran, there was not a thing Crouch could do to put pressure on any one for information. It would be a waiting game and Crouch was not keen on those.
***
9
Hassan returned alone after the factory had shut down for the day and relative peace had returned to the neighbourhood. Acer had been sitting around with little else to do other than go over the plans for the following day and listen to the sounds of the district and his building.
He hadn’t expected to hear dozens of boots charging up the metal staircase – shouts of men acting on information received. But he couldn’t switch off completely. Every braking vehicle, every slammed door in the street, every loud clatter from below made him still his breathing and cock his head for sounds of hostiles approaching.
Hassan brought a feast with him: grilled chicken, hot bread, salad, and a selection of Persian mezes and dips. He apologised for not being able to stay and join Acer in his meal, citing an important meeting across the city.
Acer wondered whether the reason was simply an excuse. Either way, he wasn’t bothered. Neither of them had shown much desire to engage in normal conversation. He understood this, as much as he understood that he was simply someone for them to use in their aim of destabilising the Iranian regime. He was a pawn in their game, just as he was a pawn for Crouch of British Intelligence; just as he had been a pawn for Bishop, the corrupt politician, before that; just as he had been a pawn of the British Army before that. The thought made him feel grubby. It also made him determined to make some changes in his life when this was over. Top of his list was to stop allowing himself to be a lowly piece in the games of others, something to be risked, pushed about, sacrificed, perhaps.
Before Hassan left, Acer said, ‘Has London been informed of my situation?’
‘I left a message with our contact this afternoon detailing what I could. I have told them to stand by to offer assistance. That is as much as I felt safe doing. Everything is monitored in Iran. The American NSA could learn some things from the Iranian authorities.’
Alone again, he took time and trouble to lay the table. He arranged the plastic containers of food and a setting for one. And then he ate, wishing he had beer instead of water and hoping that the ritual-like organisation of his meal didn’t end up becoming the last supper of a condemned man.
***
10
The Iranian intelligence officer made the evening call as arranged. ‘What news?’
‘The British enquired under the pretext of a rumour whether a British national had been detained yesterday. They are worried.’
‘Of course, but not nearly as worried as they should be. Is everything in place for tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Everything is arranged.’
‘The ambulance is ready?’
‘And the military unit briefed. They just await the order to leave their barracks.’
‘When do we take receipt of the package?’
‘Everything will be waiting in Bandar Abbas.’
‘She can do it?’
‘I have absolute faith in her.’
‘Perhaps she will also be more sympathetically treated if she is alone?’
‘With her brother taken by the authorities.’
***
11
Acer slept well – better than he could have hoped for. The good food and his previous troubled night had both tired and relaxed him enough to make sleep worth trying despite the creeping nervousness he felt for the following day’s promise of action.
With hours to fill before his new friends were due to arrive, he exercised: push-ups, sits-ups, pull-ups on the door frame. He rotated the basics of his daily workout until his body was running with perspiration; his breathing was heavy; his muscles burned with the effort, and his mind was energised with the rush of endorphins.
He showered, finished what food was left, cleared away and tidied up. When they arrived he was feeling positive and eager.
He expected them to display signs of their own anxieties but both seemed outwardly calm and collected – professional. This pleased him. He would have enough to do, enough to occupy his thoughts, without worrying whether his accomplices would be able to keep their end up.
Niki was dressed formally in full black chador. Hassan was freshly shaved, his moustache looked trimmed. He wore a good suit, shirt and tie, and polished shoes. They looked the part of a decent, pious middle class couple seeking to adopt.
They were early, which was good. It allowed time to recap and review their plans for the abduction of Mrs Hammond and her child. They could think of nothing to change, nothing to add, which was agai
n good.
Hassan handed Acer a mobile phone. As Acer familiarised himself with it, he said, ‘What about my other request?’
‘Something is coming,’ said the man. ‘You’ll have no need of a weapon today. No one in our way will be armed.’
Acer was disappointed. It wasn’t that he had any great desire to start shooting people, but it was a universally acknowledged fact that a man wielding a gun had a far greater chance of making others compliant with his wishes than a man without. He hoped Hassan’s information was good.
Acer kept his old clothes on, fixed the keffiyeh and sunglasses, and after final checks they left the small flat and made their way down to the car.
The noise of the factory machinery as they descended the metal stairs indicated a workforce hard at it. They passed no one on their way to the vehicle.
The old Mercedes saloon had been sitting in full sun for over an hour. The temperature of the trapped air inside made it almost unbreatheable. In the absence of air-conditioning, they let down all the windows. Acer was told to make himself inconspicuous on the back seat.
The drive through the suburbs of the city was a small distraction for him. He looked at the buildings, the traffic, the mosques, the fixtures and fittings of a city so alien in culture and construction to what he was used to. But he could take little interest in the changing surroundings that flashed past the window. Those images that did attract a second or longer glance prompted memories of the poorer, more remote, districts of Istanbul that he’d passed through in his short time in Turkey and he realised why they had attracted his attention. He shut that unhelpful memory down, quickly.
***
12
It was half an hour at a good city pace to the orphanage. The building was situated in a quiet, wide and tree-lined street in a residential area. They drove in through tall open metal gates, which were unmanned. The weeds, which had grown up to curl around the ironwork, suggested the gates hadn’t had their hinges exercised in a long while.
The building was set well back from the road. It was a dated affair on the verge of neglected. It looked either purpose-built or, more probably, converted from something equally institutional in nature. Two levels under a flat roof. A plain concrete front with peeling paint broken up only by windows and wide steps that led up to a large front entrance. The Iranian flag hung limply in the breathless morning from a rusting metal pole that jutted out from the middle of the upper floor wall above the front door.
Hassan took a generous curving line in his approach. He brought the car to a stop a short distance from the main building in shade provided by a small detached brick-built structure. They were facing the way they would need to leave.
He killed the engine. Niki continued to look stiffly out of the windscreen. As they had neared their destination she had fixed a niqab to cover her face and complement the chador. Hassan turned in his seat to face Acer. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow.
‘Remember, a woman will come to fetch you. Do not speak to her. She will not understand you and it would be as well for you not to give her extra information to provide to the authorities when they interrogate her about us. She will take you to the girl.’
‘Does she know why we are here?’
‘No. She believes our purpose to be something else.’
Acer wanted to ask him what that was, but Hassan had already turned and was speaking quietly to Niki in their native tongue.
He turned back to Acer and said, ‘Call when you are leaving the room. Come straight to the car and wait for us.’ And then they were rattling the door handles, getting out and walking together towards the entrance.
Acer put his back to the car door so that he was able to watch both the orphanage and the main gate. The occasional vehicle rumbled by the end of the drive. There was even some birdsong. What he didn’t hear was the noise of dozens of children chattering, laughing, playing somewhere close by. He was pondering the reasons for this when a short and frumpy woman somewhere between middle and old age came out of the front door and started down the steps towards him. When he was sure she was there for him he got out. He pulled the headgear tighter around his face, adjusted his sunglasses and followed her.
She made no attempt to speak to him. She hurried around the side of the building, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following. She went in through a side door and Acer hurried his own pace to catch it before it shut.
He was at the bottom of a concrete stairwell lit by a single window on the landing above the first flight. The air was muggy and stale. Looking up, he could see dust motes dancing in the glare and their disturbance of the air. The woman was half way up, her shoes beating a noisy tattoo on the painted concrete treads. She made a noise of encouragement to him and he went after her. Other than their progress, it was quiet, too quiet for what it was.
By the time they reached the top of the stairs he was only two steps behind her. They went through another door and were in a long corridor. This too was empty and quiet. As she bustled along in front of him he looked into open doorways and saw bunk beds and clothing, shoes and personal effects. It was tidy and ordered, clean and cared for, sterile and impersonal. Functional – no frills.
Half way down she pushed through another door. There was a sign on this one. The writing was unreadable for him, but the symbol that went with it gave him to understand this was the infirmary.
As soon as he was over the threshold the woman dipped her gaze and hurried out without a word or a look at his face. The door clicked shut behind him and he believed himself to be alone. He heard the faint tip-tap of her shoes as she moved quickly away.
Against the far white-painted wall were five beds. Four were empty. The bed in the furthest corner, under a high, small oblong of window, was occupied. Before approaching it, he checked the rest of the long room to make sure that they were indeed alone. Apart from the beds, some shelves containing basic first aid supplies and a table and chair, the place was bare.
He braced himself for what awaited him in the occupied bed. He walked quietly across the tiled floor. A young girl lay on her back. She looked no older than seven or eight. Her eyes were closed. She breathed short shallow breaths. Her short hair was a rich golden thatch against the white of the pillowcase. She looked at peace. If it were not for the obvious rise and fall of her chest she might have been dead.
As he stood at the side of the bed looking down at her, her eyes snapped open and pinned him with a terrified look. Her startling cornflower-blue irises set against pure white sclera locked onto him with an alarmed, wide-eyed stare. She looked like she might scream. He put his hand over her mouth. She flinched but she did not fight him.
Inwardly cursing his stupidity, he yanked off the sunglasses and the keffiyeh. ‘I’m English,’ he said. ‘My name is Acer. I’m here to help you and your mother get out of Iran. Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand me?’
She hadn’t blinked once.
He removed his hand. He tried a smile. ‘Sorry about that. I thought you were going to scream. We’ve met before. Do you remember me?’
Nothing.
‘No problem. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember your name.’ When she didn’t give it he said, ‘What’s your name?’
She continued to stare dumbly up at him.
‘It’s OK. I’m going to wait here for your mother. She doesn’t know I’m here. It’s going to be a shock for her. She might cry or something. Both of you are going to come with me. I have friends downstairs and a car.’ He was beginning to feel uncomfortable being just stared at.
He was spared further awkwardness by the sound of an approaching vehicle. He moved to the window that looked out over the front of the property. A plain saloon car rolled to a stop next to the Mercedes. A man and woman got out. Acer barely recognised the diminutive form of Mrs Hammond. She had not been a big woman on The Rendezvous. But now she looked and moved like an old person. Short steps, stooped shoulders.
The man had a perfunctory look round, his gaze lingered on the only other car there. And then he hitched up his trousers and followed Mrs Hammond into the building and out of sight.
Acer crossed back to the bed. The girl had not moved. This disturbed him. ‘Your mother is here. She’s going to come up. I’m going to talk to her. We’re going to leave. OK?’
Nothing.
Hearing the approach of shoes on the hard corridor floor, he said nothing more. He moved behind the door and waited. The girl had turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her big blue eyes shone across the room like twin searchlights. In what he hoped was a friendly way, he put his finger to his lips and winked at her.
***
13
Mrs Hammond came into the room alone. She did not notice him behind the door. Acer listened for the retreating footsteps of any chaperone but heard nothing. It seemed they allowed her to find her way unaccompanied.
Before he could say or do anything the woman had covered the distance between the door and the bed and thrown herself down at her daughter’s side. He looked on dumbstruck and crippled with shame as she sobbed into her daughter’s bedding. This was not what he had been expecting and he realised that it should have been. How would he feel in her shoes, separated all week from his child under such circumstances?
He swallowed and his throat was dry. ‘Mrs Hammond,’ he said.
She went rigid and stopped her noise. She did not turn to seek out the source of the sound. Perhaps she was afraid she had imagined it – her mind playing tricks on her.
He left his place and took a couple of steps towards her. ‘Mrs Hammond.’
