by Tony Criddle
“Okay then mate. Keep your head down.”
Chapter Fifteen
The light ivory skin and prominent aquiline nose did mark the tall, slim commander’s genetic line. Farhad Amini lounged behind a solid wooden desk with scratched black plastic in and out trays guarding one corner and buff files stacked meticulously in and beside them. It bordered on neat to immaculate. He wasn’t normally so fastidious or nervous, but today was the big one. There were a few hours still to go.
Amini picked up a replica kris paper knife and dragged a pile of official and private mail to the centre of his big white blotter. Although not full sized, it sported a sharp, five-inch wavy steel blade, and was a leaving present from the Malaysian navy’s staff course. A couple of pewter tankards that graced a shelf behind him were tokens from other places he’d been assigned to. The frosted glass office door shuddered before he’d opened any envelopes.
“Come,” he grunted.
A short, squat chief petty officer entered, his stomach straining against a broad leather belt. He closed the door carefully behind him.
“How’s it going chief?”
“I broke off a couple of plug electrodes on the starboard engine and widened the gaps sir. Its running rough, but it won’t take a minute to put in new plugs when the time comes. I’ve been revving it up a bit. Everybody knows it’s sick.”
“Any problems fixing a test run?”
“None sir. I do the rosters anyway so we got the crew we wanted. I told them just one bag with personal stuff. Nothing obvious.”
“Fine. I’ve ordered three of the boats to patrol out passed the mouth of the delta to see what the Iraqis are up to. They’ll take off south shortly. With another officer on duty at the gate and one crew on leave, it’ll be pretty quiet when we do go.”
“Still set for 1400 hours, sir?”
Amini nodded. “It’ll be at least 1700 when the boats get back, and blokes not on duty will take off for the Sabbath when they do. The gate staff changes over at 1800 as well so we shouldn’t be missed in all that turmoil. We’ll be half way to Ahvaz by then, and with no moon it’ll be pretty dark when we do.”
“Right sir. I’d better go on playing with a sick motor then.”
“I’ll go with you chief. I need to stretch my legs.”
Tarek Achmed sprawled casually on a divan in the mullah’s office at the back of the main mosque in Abadan. A strong smell of jasmine wafted into the small but richly ornamented room from the body of the mosque and two hard-line clerics sat primly in the office with him. Achmed operated through them but worked directly for Tehran. Right now he headed a small but vicious team that covered the Abadan area, but its size and power would grow with the revolution now underway. Even the clerics were wary around him, maybe even a little scared. If Abadan was the backside of Iran, Achmed was several miles up it.
Changes had been inevitable after the revolution, but the takeover of the American Embassy had accelerated them out of all proportion. And Amini was right. Several family heads amongst the town’s elite had disappeared and Achmed was behind it. The warrants he issued said they’d gone north for questioning although none had made it further than a hundred kilometres out of Abadan, but the rapid military build-up over the border had confused the issue. That’s what they were discussing.
All three knew that Iran’s Officer Corp was made up largely from the shah’s nominees, and had been trained overseas. That’s where the military expertise still lay, and Iran was suspicious of Iraq’s intensions in the Shatt-Al-Arab. The honchos in Iraq were Sunnies and Iran knew Iraq wanted a deep water port in the Gulf. Would Iran invade?
It was possible. Turkey was closely allied with the Americans, so piping oil through there was risky, and Sunni and Shi’a Muslims had always been at each other’s throats. It was a time to tread carefully. Achmed was looking for direction and held the dithering clergy in withering contempt.
“Do I start on the military or not?”
A cleric with bottle-top glasses slouched in a high backed chair, shifted uncomfortably. “We must wait until we know what Iraq is planning. We may need the military expertise the elite has.”
The other cleric butted in. “If it does come down to some sort of war who will do the planning and lead the fighting? If casualties are heavy maybe half your job will be done anyway.”
Achmed could barely keep the sneer from his face. “And if it doesn’t happen we give them more time to disappear as well, imam.”
Perhaps you are being too zealous though Tarek Achmed. Your job will still be necessary six years from now.”
“That is being timid gentlemen. The revolution has already started and cannot continue properly until we have purged Iran of Western influences. A lot of them are in the officer corp.”
“Perhaps you have another motive though Tarek. You’ve got rid of people, but you’ve not turned up much of their personal wealth yet.” The senior mullah peered at him through his heavy horn-rimmed glasses.
This was dangerous ground and Achmed didn’t want to go there. He had to defuse this right away.
“I left others to track their assets imam, that isn’t my job, but I could let the military know they will be next.”
“Visit the military then Tarek, but don’t make any arrests. You can confiscate their passports, though.”
“May Allah protect you gentlemen. Thank you.”
It had gone way past just restless for Farhad Amini. He strode to the rugged concrete wharf with his chief and paused while the engines were flashed up. The port motor rumbled instantly, but a reluctant starboard motor groaned and laboured before it caught spasmodically, coughing and spluttering thick clouds of black, unburnt diesel from the exhaust. Satisfied, he waved to his chief. The four sailors going with them were already on board and gave him conspiratorial nods. They were ready too. Amini looked at his watch as he headed back to his office.
‘God, four bloody hours still to go.’ He nearly despaired, but he couldn’t let his doubts show. He was the boss. He was supposed to ooze confidence.
Amini distracted himself with the mail when he got back and was just about finished when his phone shrilled loudly. He jumped.
“Commander Amini.”
“Duty officer main gate sir. Someone’s here with some sort of warrant card who wants to see you urgently. Won’t take no for an answer.”
Amini’s heart skipped. “Is he on his own?”
“There’s no-one else in the car sir. He said it won’t take long.”
“Right, you’d better tell him where to come then.”
He looked around his office. It looked too damned tidy, especially his desk. Amini scattered the files and mail around then moved to the large picture window.
He watched three sleek patrol craft ease from their berths. The engines roared, causing muddy white water to churn and the crested green, white and red of the Iranian flag stirred limply on the metal masts. The ragged throb of labouring engine bubbled in the nearby background. And as if on cue a dusty black and white drew up outside the entrance. A swarthy Arab disembarked. He adjusted his black leather jacket before heading for the ground floor glass doors. There was no point in delaying this so Amini moved into the empty outer office. His supply officer and the clerk were part of a boat’s crew, so they weren’t there. Heavy steps echoed on the wooden stairs.
“Commander Amini.” He thrust out a hand to the sinister looking policeman, or whatever he was.
“Come into my office.”
Achmed took his time, deliberately looking around before following the commander. Amini’s backside was propped on the edge of his desk with his hands lightly curled around the edge when the interrogator entered.
“How can I help you?” Farhad Amini withheld a title. He had a fair idea who this joker was.
Achmed’s stare was as hostile as his words. “We are concerned about some things that happen at this base that we have no control over commander. We want to be more closely involved.”
Amini had gue
ssed right. “Who is we, and what the hell do they know about naval operations?”
Achmed’s hatred wasn’t far under the surface. He’d grown used to instant fear, to instant capitulation, but this time it wasn’t happening. The commander was even starting to bristle. Arrogant pigs. His younger years had been difficult and it was time to exercise his new authority.
“Who doesn’t matter Commander, either you’ll do it or someone will do it for you.” The spittle was beginning to spray but Amini looked calm and unphased. Achmed decided to rattle him. His eyes slitted as he moved towards the commander, deliberately unclipping his holster flap to make his point.
Amini knew that an armed threat or maybe something worse was coming and fumbled behind him before he eased to his feet. This couldn’t be happening with the departure so close. But this man wasn’t a normal policeman either; ergo he had to be someone who did the ayatollah’s dirty work. Amini knew what that mean, and it wasn’t just about him now either. Others were linked to him, at least in the short term, and their last-ditch chance would be gone with him.
Achmed was a pace or so away with his revolver half clear of its holster by then, and that was close enough. Amini suddenly stepped forward, his left hand trapping the half drawn pistol against the inquisitor’s body and his right hand, gripping the Kris, was not far behind. It went in low, angled upwards, under the sternum. The commander knew where the heart was.
At first Achmed’s eyes registered shocked disbelief, but quickly started to glaze. Amini held Achmed upright as he wiggled the vicious knife and felt it grate against something solid. He knew better than to withdraw it. He didn’t need hot, glutinous gushers of blood splattering him and everything around him. He helped the body sag slowly to the floor.
War was no stranger to his country and Farhad Amini was awash with the genes of many an ancient warrior. Killing this animal was necessary, and didn’t bother him at all, but it did alter everything the moment he struck.
His chief was alone in the boat’s maintenance office when he phoned.
“No questions now chief. Get the lads to prepare the boat for sea right away and I need you up here now. We’ve got a few things to tidy up.”
“Right away sir.” There was no hesitation.
Amini ignored the limp body and turned towards a tall wooden wardrobe in one corner of his office. A fresh pair of coveralls he wore on his boat hung alongside a dress uniform and sword. A black holdall was collapsed on the floor. He fingered his uniform then smiled. One way or the other he wouldn’t be wearing that again.
Amini stuffed photographs, papers and his passport into the zippered pockets on the bag then slipped into the coveralls. The adjacent office was next.
A large, green safe holding cash to pay contractors and his troops was anchored to an external brick wall and he and the supply officer had the combination. It was open in seconds, The stacked bundles of gaudy, large denomination notes looked healthy enough, but in reality rabid inflation meant that losing it wouldn’t have left even a smaller bank broke these days. Farhad Amini stuffed as many of the coloured wads as he could into his bag and was back in his office when his chief arrived.
Much like his boss, the senior sailor was now garbed in coveralls, with rank epaulettes on the shoulders and a round, gaudy flotilla badge on the right arm. He glanced at the grotesquely crumbled body then back to the commander. Not a shadow crossed his face.
“The clergy’s revolutionary police, he was about to spoil our day.”
“What do you want done with it sir?” It was already an it.
“No-one will miss him yet, so he can go in my wardrobe. If we’re caught later it won’t matter much what we say, and we’d probably be seen if we dumped it in the river in daylight.” The chief nodded.
Several sturdy clothes hooks lined the back of the cupboard. After a struggle they lifted Achmed’s body and draped his jacket collar firmly over two of them. Amini kicked the feet in, locked the door and pocketed the key. “Right chief, his car’s out front. Can you get rid of it somewhere?”
“There’s a compound for marker buoys and caissons at the far end of the jetty Commander. I’ll stick it in there.”
“Good lad. Take my bag with you while I return the office keys to the main gate.” The chief was probably ten years older than the commander, but that’s how officers address their favourites. He’d learnt that in Britain.
Chapter Sixteen
Nick touched down from a survey at about the same time that the sleek grey patrol boat wheezed and coughed its way out into the torpid river. But it hadn’t been about minerals. Sinclair tossed him his headset.
“Bring the boys in when you’ve done the after flight Jock. I’ll put them in the picture.” Sinclair nodded as Nick headed back to the crew room.
He still wasn’t sure what to say, and felt edgy when he unfolded and flattened his map. Then he shrugged. What the hell would they know about maps anyway, when would they have ever used one? But that was immediately followed by a deep frown. God, that was a bloody racist thought and he didn’t think he had a biased bone in his body.
That got him thinking at a tangent. Relationships hadn’t gone all that well either, and neither did he think he was chauvinistic. But maybe he was, maybe it had been him that stopped anything going too far. He felt uncomfortable. He could have been his own worst enemy, could have been looking to blame anything as long as it wasn’t himself. That bloody Scotsman must be really getting through.
He looked up as the door screeched.
Nick’s maintenance team was not normally so quiet when they arrived, Jock must have said something. He gestured for them to drag up chairs, but Sinclair remained standing behind them. Imran was the leader and would do most of the talking, so Nick twisted the map towards him. He paused, not sure where to begin, then realised if he needed their help they needed to know everything.
Nick cleared his throat and the four Pakistani’s focused on him with deep concentration. They were not all totally fluent in English, and they didn’t intend to miss anything.
At first he kept to what was happening in country and to the company, then let them mull over what he’d said. The highlanders spoke rapidly in Urdu then bounced questions off Imran, but it didn’t last long.
“We’re happy so far Mister Evans. Our embassy will get us back by train if they have to, but Jock said something about an escape as well.” Nick hesitated then nodded.
“There’s an Iranian navy bloke down south who was my friend at the British naval college. This new regime could arrest him and maybe even execute him Imran. He’s asked if I can spirit him away somewhere.”
Another thought hit him. None of this was an issue in their country and Pakistan was Islamic too. They might not want to help.
“Imran I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem and I’m assuming too much. If you don’t want to get involved say so now. I’d certainly understand and I won’t say any more.”
Imran looked at the others and caught the slight nods.
“This man is your friend Nick and we are all friends here. If one of us needed help we would do what we could, that is how it works with us. You intend to rescue him with a helicopter, yes?” Nick caught his Christian name in amongst that and could see they were all with him. He nodded with a sigh of relief.
“Okay then. Jock and I will take off at 1230 tomorrow and it’s close to a three-hour round trip. We don’t know what he’s going to do after he gets here yet, but I suspect he’ll want to stay for a while. With Webster gone it will be at my place.”
“Is Floyd coming back?”
“I don’t think we’ll see him again mate.”
Imran nodded. “So what can we do?”
“Well, the first thing is a decent disguise. We thought that the loose gear you guys wear and one of those shemagh things would do the trick. None of the Ayatollah’s mob will risk wandering into a Bakhtaran town uninvited, most of the townsfolk are armed to the bloody teeth, so if he keeps out of the
limelight he should be okay. Bring some gear out here with you and we can kit him up from the word go.”
“How long will he stay in Shahabad with us?”
“Who knows Imran, it depends on where he wants to end up. We might even have to look at a few places we can take him in a chopper.”
The Pakistani nodded. “Bring us out early tomorrow early and we’ll see what we can do around here as well. Is there anything more we can provide?”
“No mate. If we can get him into our town we’re home and hosed.”
Amini cast off, but two patrol boats remained tethered to the solid grey jetty, and although there weren’t any people around, the pier had a warlike look about it. The torpid river mouth was a good fifty kilometres from the base and Amini had given orders for a survey of the Iraqi coast beyond that. The others wouldn’t be a problem either.
Amini limped his boat up-river, close to the naval base and a small civilian jetty further inland, revving spasmodically to keep the engine spluttering, but it was superfluous. A small, rusted freighter nuzzled the oil streaked stone blocks north of the base but the crew seemed disinterested. Only a few fishing feluccas ruffled the oily, placid surface.
Farhad Amini shut down the labouring starboard engine some thirty minutes later, and his chief and a helper changed the spark plugs. It roared healthily when Amini hit the starter. The chief came up with a raised thumb and Amini smiled as he opened up the taps. He knew a raised thumb in Iran meant exactly the opposite to what it did in Britain. Perhaps the chief was inviting the navy to sit on it.
That vast but shallow valley they travelled through was probably the greenest part of Iran this side of the Elburz. It was also wet and marshy, and that was no surprise. The Karun and the Karkheh rivers emptied into the Persian Gulf around there, but so did the mighty Euphrates and Tigris in Iraq. A myriad of smaller rivers and streams also tumbled down from the Zagros ranges. Amini had read somewhere that rudimentary farming began there over 6000 years before, and it wasn’t hard to believe.
