by Oliver Tidy
‘No. And now you are boring me. How do you know we are under the American Embassy?’
He forced himself to display a confidence he did not feel when he said, ‘Jalil’s brother did not die at the hotel. It was not difficult to make him talk. VEVAK are not the only ones whose methods do not always conform to the Geneva Convention. But sometimes, as I’m sure you can appreciate, the end justifies the means. If your intention was to kill Americans then you will have failed. The embassy was being evacuated before we got into the tunnels.’
‘Liar.’
Her rejection had a sharp edge to it. It pleased him to know that his impromptu deceit had riled her and given her if not yet cause for doubt, then for irritation. Either emotion might eventually encourage her nearer to him and further from her weapon.
He tried harder. ‘Jalil and his friends will have a welcoming committee when they emerge from the station. Anti-terrorist units will have located where I disappeared to from the tracking device I dropped in the hall upstairs.’
‘Stop it. You are embarrassing yourself. You have been an embarrassment from the beginning. I feel insulted that British intelligence would send such an amateur to my country.’
Even though his situation seemed hopeless he kept himself outwardly calm. He wanted to dent her confidence, to not give her the satisfaction she so obviously craved of having him wriggle like live bait awaiting its known fate. And if he were lucky, if she lost her temper with him, she might also lose some of her sense. It could lead somewhere.
‘How long have we got?’
‘Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until the west feels my revenge.’
Acer was aware of the dryness in his mouth. He moistened his lips before he spoke. ‘Revenge for what?’
‘For the deaths of my parents.’
***
102
He laughed at her. ‘That’s it? That’s what all this is about? Because of a tragic accident you want to blow half of London to kingdom come? You’re insane. And your death: what are you supposed to be? Some kind of martyr? Whatever that might be in your twisted way of thinking. It’s just another pathetic gesture in a long history of pathetic, idiotic gestures – an easy way out and a mention at Sunday prayers. There’s no courage in your conviction, just cowardice. Yes, it was appalling what the Americans did, but it was not deliberate. They made a mistake. How can you possibly seek to justify what you’re planning? Would your parents want this in their name? Would they want you to kill innocent women and children for them? You’re deranged, Niki. You’re just another deluded terrorist.’
‘How do you know about my parents?’
‘Haven’t you been listening? We know all about you. We always have. How you and Hassan, we’ll call him that, shall we, even though it’s not his real name, have associations with VEVAK. You think I didn’t understand you weren’t my contact at the airport? You stank from the start. All that smoke and mirrors crap: the last minute approach, forcing me to give up everything, moving me from place to place, disorientation and diversion, the oldest and most hackneyed tricks in the book. I feel offended to have been thought incapable of seeing through the pair of you. You really think I didn’t know what you were playing at? You’ve been so engrossed in your smug satisfaction, your feeble ‘deception’, that you didn’t once stop to think I might have seen through you from the beginning, like a pair of cheap curtains. That performance at the airport. That pointless journey in the barrel. The poor bastard you had killed for your nasty little home video. The debacle at the orphanage. Hassan’s ‘disappearance’ at the railway station. It was all so predictable. And you have the neck to call me embarrassing. At times your pathetic little charade has made my skin hive with embarrassment. I nearly bit through my tongue to stop myself laughing at you and your fool of a brother when you had me dressed up like an extra from a cheap Ealing comedy and driven through the road block outside Qom.’
She took a step towards him. ‘Why did you not say something sooner then? What was the point of your earlier outburst? We are here. You are my prisoner. I am the one who is going to end your life. How does that fit in with your knowing all about us?’
‘You stupid woman. Have you still not worked it out?’ Acer forced himself to bark out a harsh laugh that echoed mockingly around their confinement. He pushed it as far as he could, knowing that every ticking second was a moment lost. ‘The one with the red scarf, the one laying the explosives in the tunnels, the detonators: he’s one of ours.’ He smiled widely at her. As if speaking to an idiot child he said, ‘Nothing’s going to work, Niki.’
***
103
She shortened the distance between them with a couple of angry strides. Acer saw her reach into her garment and pull out her weapon of choice: the blade glinted dully as it flicked out from the handle with a clinical snap.
‘Liar. I warned you. I’ll feed your tongue to the rats. I’ll put your eyes out.’
Acer yanked his manacles free of the broken ladder. The searing pain made him gasp. Niki hesitated and the delay helped him to evade the slash that followed. He fell back against the wall. The pistol he had no hope of reaching pushed against his spine. Niki recovered quickly. She bent to a crouch. He crab-stepped sideways and she matched him, ten feet between them. In her uncertainty he dropped to the ground and scooped up a double handful of earth and stones. She retreated. He advanced holding the spoil threateningly above his head. Behind her was her firearm.
She held the knife in front her as she edged backwards. They had tussled before on the streets of Qom and she would remember that her strength was no match for his. If his hands had been behind him the advantage might have encouraged her to attack. With his hands in front of him and ready to launch a hail of stones and dirt she could not take the chance.
She continued to back up and he matched her. She waved the knife, daring him to make his move. Another two paces and she would have the gun within reach. He took a quick pace and and hurled the earth and gravel at her face. She instinctively brought up an arm to shield herself. He closed the gap using the momentum of his throw and delivered a solid kick into her stomach sending her sprawling backwards to land heavily on her side. She scrabbled to her knees and was turning to meet him when his second kick connected with her ribs. She landed on her face, winded and groaning. He stamped down on the hand that held the knife. She screamed in agony and frustration. He fell on her as he had done with the fat driver outside the orphanage. He got his hands over her head and used the connecting links of the handcuffs to put a strangle hold on her.
She thrashed and bucked and clawed at the choke hold she had no hope of breaking.
‘How do I stop it?’
He gripped her between his knees, eased off on her throat. She coughed and gasped.
‘How do I stop it?’
He couldn’t know how much time had passed since she’d told him they had fifteen minutes left to live. It could have been five minutes. It could have been ten. It could have been fourteen. She could have been lying. He might have seconds. He might have minutes. He might have an hour. It might already be too late.
‘How do I stop it?’
‘You can’t.’
He got her head in the crook of his arm and with a sharp, clean, upward jerk, snapped her neck. He let her fall into the dirt and rolled off her.
He did not kill her for who she was. He did not kill her for what she had done. He did not kill her for the atrocity she was planning. He did not kill her out of spite or anger or because he’d threatened that he would if ever she pulled a knife on him again. He did not kill her out of the bitter frustration he felt that his daughter might still be alive and needing him. He did not kill her because he was about to die himself. He killed her because he might have only seconds left in which to do something to stave off disaster and left alive she would not have allowed him to try.
***
104
On hands and knees, he crawled the few feet to the centre of the wires and
explosives, immune now to the pain in his wrists and lower arms. The crushing dread in his chest threatened to asphyxiate him.
He brought the Tilly lamp closer with an unsteady hand. Everything was connected to a central box within an open aluminium case. An electronic timer was in the process of counting down to zero. It indicated he had four minutes and thirty-eight seconds to find a way to stop it and a wave of hot nausea threatened to rise up out of him.
A backlit numerical keypad confronted him and he understood the futility of trying to disarm it through random input. He thought about ripping out wires that had been run to the case, but could not be sure that this would not trigger the device. He knew something of explosives from his time in the Army but he did not have any degree of expertise in preparing them or making them safe.
He stared dumbly at the clock. Three minutes and forty seconds. He thought again about trying random codes. But he had no idea of the number of digits he would need and again he could not be certain that an incorrect attempt would not trigger the device.
Two minutes and fifty-one seconds.
At two minutes there was an electronic beep that would not have been heard in a crowded bar. A charge in one of the tunnels detonated with a dull thud and Acer listened helplessly as the tunnel collapsed, blocking off the outside world. The air became instantly thick with dust and the musty smell of demolished ancient brickwork.
At one minute and thirty seconds the machine beeped again and a charge exploded in the second of the three tunnels. Another wave of dust and foul air was propelled into the space by the blast.
He was in the last two minutes of his life. His thoughts inevitably strayed to the fate of the daughter he would now never even have the opportunity of finding, dead or alive. It was the path of revenge that had led him to the knowledge that she might still be alive and ironically it was that same path that had led to the door of his death. He understood revenge, the motive, the need, the frustration and the risks. To understand the parts was to accept the whole.
Niki had said she was doing it for the deaths of her parents. That was her motivation. Her hatred had stewed for over a quarter of a century.
1988: 1 – 9 – 8 – 8. Before he’d properly considered it he’d punched it in. The clock stopped with one minute and two seconds remaining. He waited for the thump that would signal the destruction of the third and final tunnel and his entombment. It did not come. As the dust swirled and settled in the feeble light of the dying lamp he closed his eyes, dropped his chin onto his chest and waited.
***
Epilogue
Acer was late – several weeks late. But it couldn’t be helped and the man he’d come to pay his respects to would have understood. He certainly couldn’t have minded, given the circumstances.
A blustery wind swept across the open ground, driving the fallen leaves before it and bending the neat row of mature poplar trees standing at the roadside so that they resembled a cast of performers taking applause at the end of a good show. Much higher, thick armadas of grey cloud choked the sky and the crows that braved the conditions were being thrown about like broken black boomerangs. But the air was not cold. And so far the rain had held off.
He hadn’t worn a suit and tie for so long that he found himself constantly shooting his cuffs and fiddling with the knot he felt was throttling him, like an inverted hangman’s noose. He caught Susan frowning good-naturedly in his direction and pushed his chin out one final time before dropping his hands to his side.
The wind played with their clothing, their hats, their hair and their words. There were five of them present: Acer, Susan, Mrs Tallis, Dominique and Zoe. Out of respect for Stan’s mother they’d all gone with dark colours. Mrs Tallis was dressed smartly in a powder blue two-piece suit, matching hat and sensible shoes. When she’d opened the door to them that morning she’d wondered aloud whether they’d come from a funeral.
She looked like she’d aged ten years since he’d last seen her only a few weeks before. She also looked full of gratitude that they’d all made the trip.
Stan Tallis had been in the ground nearly two months. The wreaths and bouquets, cards and messages of sorrow and goodwill had long since wilted, been spoiled by the elements, and then been removed. The ground on and around the grave was gradually returning to how it had been before someone had turned up with a mini-digger to gouge a hole in the countryside for one of Hampshire’s finest – shot to death by men who’d lost the plot while he was trying to save Acer’s life.
When Acer had told Dominique where he was going and why she’d asked him who Stan Tallis was. They’d shared a bottle of good wine while he’d told her about the policeman who’d tracked him to Bodrum in Turkey and then helped him find and expose the people who had been behind the Pacific massacre and her family’s horrors at the hands of the Iranians. She remembered Jenny, Stan’s daughter, well from The Rendezvous. Dominique had asked if she and Zoe might go with him. Mrs Tallis had welcomed Dominique and her daughter with open arms, empathy and appreciation.
Now that they were finally there, standing with heads bowed around the grave, an awkwardness descended on the group. Knowing that a good man lay dead – brutally and senselessly murdered – only a few feet below them and that he had given his life seeking justice for them was sombre knowledge for Acer and Dominique to contemplate.
Mrs Tallis broke the spell by taking a small book from her handbag and hoping aloud that none of them would mind if she read something from it. It was an anthology of verse written by the poets of the First World War.
‘Stan had a great fondness for war poetry. Did you know that?’ she said looking at Acer.
He smiled fondly back at the woman who’d believed in him when he’d been accused in the media of murdering her son, an old woman who had then gone on to offer him help and protection from those who hunted him. ‘He never mentioned it.’
‘One of his favourites was Rain by Edward Thomas. I know it might seem a little pointless and sentimental, foolish even, to read something to someone who has ceased to exist and cannot appreciate it, but I think it’s appropriate for the occasion. And I’m in the mood to indulge myself. I can be a bit of a sentimental old fool sometimes.’ As she rummaged in her bag for her reading glasses the others exchanged looks of sadness and sympathy for the woman who was clearly battling bravely to maintain her composure, even now.
After a minute, and with something approaching irritation, she said, ‘Damn. I can’t seem to find my glasses. I must have left them at home.’
As Mrs Tallis had a final dig about in her bag, Susan caught Acer’s eye and left him in no doubt regarding what he should offer.
Reading aloud was not something he’d ever felt comfortable doing, or felt he had a talent for. Susan tried again.
He breathed in and out and felt his pulse rate quicken. He put on a brave face and a braver voice and said, ‘Why don’t I read it, Mrs Tallis?’
‘Would you, Acer? I’m sorry. I think I’ve left them on the kitchen table. It would mean a lot to me.’
‘It would mean a lot to me, too,’ he said, avoiding Susan’s eye.
Mrs Tallis handed over the little worn book. It was closed. He opened it at the title page. He noticed a neatly-penned inscription on the inside of the front cover: To dad, Happy Birthday, Love Jenny xx. He felt the tightness in his throat. He swallowed and instinctively his hand came up to pull at the knot of his tie again.
The page he needed was marked with a thin blue ribbon. He cleared his throat and foolishly looked at the others. They were all staring at him, attention fixed and waiting. He felt his mouth dry out, his palms begin to sweat, and thought that defusing a dirty bomb in the capital had been less stressful.
He took a deep, stabilising breath and while the wind raked and rattled the leaves in the trees around them he read.
When it was done, he immediately felt only an immense relief that he hadn’t botched it and spoiled the occasion. Unable to help himself, he grinned, took his eyes of
f the page they’d been riveted to and looked around the small group. Three of them were weeping and one, the youngest, was staring intently at him with those bright blue piercing eyes that he still hadn’t quite become used to.
And then he thought about what he had read and the sadness of it hit him, like the shock-wave of an exploding artillery shell. He felt his eyes tingle with the import of the poet’s words.
Mrs Tallis said, ‘Thank you, Acer. That was beautifully read. I’m glad I forgot my glasses.’
Both Susan and Dominique were dabbing at their eyes to preserve their make-up.
‘Not bad,’ said Susan. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel. I thought you were all brawn and tough guy. That’s quite a sensitive side you’ve got.’
‘And a natural empathy for the poet’s rhythm and metre,’ said Dominique. ‘It was lovely.’
He didn’t know what to say. He was saved further embarrassment by the first few fat spots of rain slapping down on the stone of the tombs and headstones around them. He said, ‘Let’s go and drink to the man’s memory before the heavens open and we all get soaked. Why couldn’t Stan have picked a poem about sunshine?’
He offered the book to Mrs Tallis and she stopped him with her raised palm. ‘Will you keep it? As a memory of Stan?’
‘I’d love to have it. Thank you.’ He tucked it away in his inside pocket before offering her his arm to navigate the uneven grass paths back to the car.
It was a short walk back to the car park where theirs was the only vehicle. With the women in heels on spongy turf and an old woman on his arm, he was glad they’d all brought umbrellas out with them, even if the gusting wind did make them hard to manage. They would have all been drenched without them.
Acer helped Mrs Tallis into the front seat while Dominique, Susan and Zoe organised themselves in the back. He was just walking around to the driver’s door when his mobile began vibrating in his pocket. Under the protection of the umbrella, he fished it out to see who it was. No one other than Crouch and those who were in the car had his number.
