by R G Ainslee
He halted in front of a dingy building. A small hand lettered sign heralded the place as the Khyber Rest House. This had to be it, the sign was in Roman script, not Persian. He strode up the steps and entered.
An older man sat slumped in a plush chair. He held a cup of chai in his right hand. He glanced at Kazimov and said in English, "Two dollars American, in advance, no credit, you pay now, and you share room."
Kazimov responded in English, "I do not want a room." He thrust the photo in front of the man. "Have you seen this man."
Bashir hesitated and examined the picture closer. The man had shown no credentials, but he knew better than to question someone's authority. The combination of the question in English and the man's officious nature unnerved him. He recognized the man in the photograph, he was upstairs. Ever the opportunist, Bashir saw a chance to squeeze out some cash from the Spaniard.
"No. I not know this man." He shook his head and took a sip of tea.
The Azari knew better, the man had lied, his eyes did not. He told him in flawless Farsi, "Are you are sure, take another look."
Bashir didn't blink. "I said no."
Kazimov thanked the man and left the hotel. Out on the street he called the two Iranian's over.
"He is inside. You wait here and follow him if he leaves. I must find a telephone and make my report." The lieutenant hurried off in the direction of the main street.
* * *
Fortified by two cups of hot chai and a pastry, Amadeo headed back. By habit he halted a half block away. Two men paced up and down in front of the hotel. He recognized one of them, the man who had been watching Sam's apartment.
Amadeo wheeled about and slipped down a narrow passage between two buildings and made his way to the rear of the Khyber Rest House. No one was watching the back door. He entered and made his way up the back stairs. Peter was up and packing his bag.
"Say Mate, thought you had left us."
"No, just went down to the market for breakfast."
"Good idea. Bashir does not do a proper breakfast."
"You getting ready to leave?"
"Righto, soon as those two get their act together."
The Danish couple were stuffing their sleeping bags into their packs.
"I'll meet you down the street. You heading north out of here?"
"Yeah, is there a problem?"
"Don't want to let Bashir see me leave. I'll slip out the back way."
"The Austrian grinned. "Stiff him with the bill, eh. But what about your passport?"
"No problem. Never gave it to him."
"Meet you in ten."
* * *
"We found him. Like you said, in a cheap hotel by the market." Kazimov was calling from a shop on the square north of the bazaar.
Suslov's voice was calm, but with an urgent tone, "Have the comrades take him at once. They must be quick and decisive. They do have weapons, don't they?"
Kazimov was taken aback, he did not know. "I'm not sure."
"Give them yours if they do not. Do not fail me."
"Yes, Comrade Major. You can count on me."
"Go. Call me when you have him … and do not fail."
Kazimov hung up the phone and cursed under his breath. His career now depended on the performance of two bumbling Persian dogs. He ignored the merchant's demand for payment and rushed out of the shop.
* * *
Amadeo paused at the bottom of the back stairs. The sound of Bashir's snoring echoed from the front room. He hefted his bag over his shoulder and made his way north down the alley to a passageway that led to the street. He peeked around the corner, the two men were still there.
Peter's Opel van was parked in a space at the auto repair shop next to the hotel. The men would see him if he approached the van, so he waited in the shadows for Peter to come his way.
A few minutes later a man came rushing down the street, passed Amadeo without looking, and halted in front of the hotel. He motioned to the men and they hurried to his side. They spoke. The man pulled a pistol part way out of his jacket, racked the slide, and slid it back in.
They started across the street, only to be met by Peter and the two Danes coming out the door. They stepped aside and let them pass. One of the men gave the guys the onceover and then followed the others into the hotel.
Peter tossed his bag in the rear, followed by the couple, and started up the van. It coughed a few times, the battery struggling to provide enough juice to turn the engine over, and then settled into a reassuring rumble. He put it in gear, pulled out of the narrow parking slot, and headed north.
Amadeo stepped out, opened the passenger door on the fly, and jumped into the front seat. A quick glance to the side mirror confirmed that they had not been seen.
"You get away okay?" said Peter.
"Yeah, old Bashir was asleep at the wheel."
* * *
Startled by the appearance of Kazimov and two tough looking men, Bashir knocked his empty tea cup off the arm of his chair. The glass shattered on the floor.
Kazimov grabbed Bashir's arm and spoke in Farsi, barely above a whisper, "You lied. He is here. Do not make any noise." He pulled out his pistol, a Makarov 6P9 with a silencer, and motioned for the men to follow him up the stairs.
The KGB operative relied on his training and made a textbook entrance with pistol extended in front of him. The Iranians followed and fanned out through the room. Fiona screamed. Desmond cowered on the floor, his hands above his head. The others ignored the action, infused in their heroin induced stupor.
"He is not here," said one of the Iranians. He looked to Kazimov for an answer.
"That is obvious. Search the rest of the hotel. Basement, and roof, see if there is a back entrance." Kazimov was furious, he would look like a fool, his chances for promotion dashed. He envisioned his future, following strangers on the streets of Baku, or worse.
He wheeled about and went downstairs. Bashir was on his way out the door.
"Stop. Come here. Did you warn this man?"
Bashir trembled. "No, I have not seen him today."
"So, you did lie."
"I… I did not remember. He was here yesterday. I have not seen him today."
Kazimov raised his pistol and shot him between the eyes.
* * *
Morning traffic in Tehran was chaotic. The streets clogged with cars, taxis, trucks, carts, bicycles, and suicidal pedestrians. Traffic rules waned with the overthrow of the Shah, today it was every man for himself.
"What's the plan?" asked Amadeo.
"We find the main highway out of the city and drive west to Tabriz. But first, I must make one stop."
"Where?"
"Mehrabad airport. I have to pick up a package at the terminal."
Amadeo glanced at the side mirror, still watching for a tail. "Take long?"
"No, just a few minutes. I'll park outside the main entrance, no problem." He grinned. "After all, I am driving a post van."
"Yeah, German efficiency, a long-distance delivery."
The two Danes had not uttered a word. They sat on the floor in the back, huddled against the side panel. The girl still had that empty look. The guy barely suppressed his emotions, Amadeo sensed he was a time-bomb ready to explode.
"Did Bashir know you have this truck?"
"Yes, he arranged the parking space."
Amadeo took another look at the side mirror. Bashir was sure to squeal and here he was in the most obvious vehicle in Tehran.
* * *
Suslov took the news calmly. He had become accustomed to the Raven-One team's last-minute escapes. But he was not through. Kazimov would have one last chance to redeem himself. Suslov had no choice, a chase was beyond his physical capabilities.
"So, you have no clue as to his location or how he got away?" Suslov's words dripped with sarcasm.
Kazimov took a deep breath, he was calling from the hotel phone. "I believe he may be with a group who left this morning. We interrogated two people at the hotel, they think he
left with an Australian and two other people. The Australian may have a vehicle."
"You have a description of course? Type, make, and color."
"No, they did not see it and the other people are… how would you say, incoherent on drugs. The Iranian comrades are asking questions in the area, maybe they can obtain a description."
"Did you ask the manager of the hotel?"
Kazimov froze, he had not told Suslov of the shooting. "He knew nothing."
"The others saw you?"
"Yes. I had no choice. The comrades were not reliable."
"Leave no witnesses."
"You mean…"
"I said, leave no witnesses. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Comrade Major, it will be done."
"Find this vehicle. I want your next call to be a report of total success."
Suslov hung-up before he could respond.
* * *
True to his word, Peter parked the van in a loading zone in front of the terminal. Amadeo's situational awareness went into high gear as he sat exposed to the comings and goings of the passengers. A police officer strolled by, gave the van a curious look, and continued his patrol.
Five minutes went by, Peter had not returned. Amadeo began to worry. Peter had not told him what he was picking-up. A taxi drove up and a man slid out of the rear seat. It was Carl Walker. Amadeo shielded his face with his hand.
Walker pulled a leather suitcase and a cloth wrapped package out of the trunk of the cab, paid the driver, glanced around, and entered the terminal. Amadeo followed and watched Walker pass through the checkpoint with no difficulty. Not wanting to risk the guards recognizing him from a photo, Amadeo held back and watched the American approach the Swissair counter. He checked his leather bag and headed for the inside waiting area with the package. The departures board showed the next Swissair flight was at 0945 to Zurich by way of Beirut.
Amadeo took another look around, Peter was not in sight. He returned to the van. The Danish couple were asleep in the back.
The unexpected arrival of Walker was puzzling. Looked like he was headed back to Beirut. But what had he been doing in Tehran?
A few minutes later, Peter exited through the door carrying a package. A medium sized box wrapped in stitched-up cloth. It looked like the same one carried in by Walker only minutes ago. He opened the rear door and placed the package on the floor.
"Thought you got lost," said Amadeo as he took a closer look at the package.
"It took a bit longer than expected." Peter appeared nervous and glanced back towards the terminal entrance.
"You get your package okay?"
He didn't answer and slowly drove away from the terminal, checking the side mirror every few seconds.
"We ready to hit the road?"
"No. One more stop."
"On the way out of town, I hope." Amadeo glanced at the fuel gage, it was full.
Peter kept his eyes straight forward. "PTT. Need to send a cable. Just a minor detour."
Post, Telephone, and Telegraph. This meant doubling back into the city, an unwelcome delay.
* * *
Two older students entered the room, grabbed Sam's arms, shuffled him out the door, and into a room on the ground floor. His blindfold was removed, he strained to refocus in the bright light. The man before him was one of the students who had taken over the embassy, not the Marxist. He took this as a good sign.
The man first questioned him in Farsi. Sam pretended not to understand. The man persisted, accusing him of being a CIA Satan spy.
A second man was brought into the room, a food merchant, one Sam had dealt with in the bazar as part of his cover, a man whom he had spoken to in Farsi. The man looked frightened and froze when he spotted Sam.
Sam bowed his head, took a deep breath, summoned a new strength from deep in the well of his soul, and steeled himself for the inevitable.
* * *
The owner of the auto repair shop was cooperative. In revolutionary Iran, it was unwise to question authority, real or imagined. He gave Kazimov a full description of the Opel van, even down to the faded Deutsche Bundespost markings.
"What now comrade?" asked the Iranian.
Kazimov hesitated, he wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't inform the police, Suslov had made that clear. And then there was the matter of the three bodies back at the hotel. He had decided to spare the ones doped up on drugs, anything they might say would only add to the confusion. The man and woman had begged for their lives, to no avail. Orders were orders.
"We will obtain a car and drive to the east. They will go to the Turkish border and we will either catch up with them or be waiting."
* * *
Amadeo had seen death, both natural and gruesome, but the sight of Azad hanging from a crane-boom, three blocks from the PTT, unnerved him nevertheless. Azad's body twirled at the end of a cable, his eyes bulged out in an accusing stare.
"That's the second one today. Wonder if the Yanks will be next," said Peter.
Amadeo had a sinking feeling. "You never know."
Peter pulled into a parking spot down a side street. "Be back in a jiff."
"I'll come with you."
"No Mate, somebody's got to watch this lot." He tilted his head towards the back of the van. The Danes hadn't moved or said anything since leaving the hotel.
"I need to send a cable to my editor." The germ of an idea had been growing since Peter mentioned the PTT. If it looked safe, Amadeo would send a cable to the CIA Spanish newspaper cut-out.
"I said—"
"I'm going to send a cable," Amadeo's voice had that don't-mess-with-me tone.
"Suit yourself. Hey, you — Lars — don't let anyone touch my package."
The Dane glanced up with a sneer.
Amadeo stood behind Peter as he made arrangement to send his cable. The bored clerk did not ask for a passport. He took the message sheet and moved to a table. Amadeo did the same. The clerk took no special notice.
The cable read: Carlos Peatón Swissair 371 Beirut Mi siguiente artículo es Turquía EDS.
Amadeo reasoned Walker was headed to Beirut, his reputed base of operations. EDS Turkey, referred to the escape from Iran by employees of the EDS computer services company back in February. He planned to leave Iran at the same border crossing.
Back at the counter, Amadeo handed the sheet to the clerk. Peter was still writing.
"Passport." He held out his hand. Amadeo complied. The man wrote his passport number on the sheet. "Two hundred Rials." Amadeo paid, retrieved his passport, and made for the door. If an alarm sounded, he wanted to be near an escape route.
Two minutes later, Peter joined him, and they made their way back to the van. Peter seemed calmer after sending the cable. Amadeo wondered what was in the box.
* * *
"Is this how you found them?" asked Lieutenant Hamid Abbasi, an officer of Shahrbani, the National Police. He stood at the door of the second-floor room at the Khyber Rest House listening to a sergeant, the first officer to arrive on the scene. The bodies of Desmond and Fiona lay crumpled on the floor.
"Yes, we have not disturbed the room. Nothing has been moved except for the unclean drug addicts who were passed out on the floor."
"They saw nothing?"
"They were unconscious when we arrived. We had great difficulty bringing them awake."
Abbasi walked around the room taking in every detail. "No brass from the cartridges?"
"No. We found none. They must have used a revolver."
He kneeled and inspected the bodies. "One shot each, between the eyes."
"The killer must have been very close."
The lieutenant stood and crossed his arms. "But there are no powder burns on their faces."
The sergeant swallowed hard. "Here are their passports. They are from Ireland."
Abbasi leafed through the documents. "They arrived from Turkey ten days ago. Did you find any drugs or hashish?"
"Yes. All of the Europeans had hashish, and
some had heroin."
"And the manager … what is his name?"
"Bashir Khan, a Pakistani. We found his body in the basement, but the trail of blood shows he was killed at the front door. We found no brass and he was shot between the eyes."
"Who found the bodies?"
"The cook. He had been shopping in the bazaar and returned to find a trail of blood to the basement. He called us at once."
"And he saw nothing."
"No."
"Did anyone hear the shots. It must have made some noise. Did you speak to the nearby merchants?"
"Yes, but no one heard anything."
"So, no one heard the shots and no brass was found. What does that tell you?"
"A silencer?"
"If the weapon had a silencer, it must have been a semi-automatic pistol, not a revolver."
"Yes, but … the brass."
"It was picked up." Abbasi walked to the window and looked up and down the street. "A silencer, the brass collected, and the victims shot between the eyes with no powder burns. What does that suggest to you?"
"A professional assassin — a James Bond."
Abbasi turned and spread his arms. "Tell me, why would a professional assassin kill these people. They are nothing."
The flustered sergeant glanced around. "Drugs. A drug deal gone bad."
"Not likely. There is something else at stake. Did you inspect the hotel records, are all of the inhabitants accounted for?"
The sergeant shouted out to someone downstairs, "Ali, bring the book to the lieutenant."
Ali arrived moments later and Abbasi checked the names on the last page. "Three people checked out this morning. Are all of the others accounted for?"
Ali said, "Only one is missing, a man from Spain."
"The ones that left, do you have any other information on them?"
Ali responded, "The owner of the automobile repair shop next door said three people left in a van early this morning."
"Good. Get a description of the vehicle and we will circulate a bulletin. These days, there are not so many foreign cars on the streets, we should have them soon."
The sergeant said, "Do you believe they are the assassins?"
"Catch then and we will find out."
"What about the man from Spain?"
"If he returns, arrest him and bring him to me."
