by R G Ainslee
* * *
Three hours after leaving the PTT, Peter pulled the van off to the side of the road. They had just cleared the urban sprawl of greater Tehran. Amadeo had spent the time with his eyes glued to the side mirror watching for trouble. It appeared Peter did the same.
Amadeo and the two Danes wandered into a grove of trees, Peter stayed with the vehicle. The contents of the box worried him. Was it drugs, or something else? If, as he suspected, it originated with Carl Walker, it would not be good. Amadeo didn't like operating in the dark. The package spelled potential trouble, he decided to find out.
"What's in the box?" asked Amadeo as he returned from the grove.
"None of your business, Mate." Peter was leaning against the side of the van. The Danes were still in the trees.
"Is it anything illegal, something that the authorities will be interested in?"
"Not your worry."
"Think I'll take a look." Amadeo started for the rear doors.
Peter pulled a small pistol from his jacket. "Stop."
Amadeo halted at the rear of the van. "Looks like you answered my question." Peter was too far away to rush him, Amadeo edged towards the rear corner of the vehicle.
Peter brandished the pistol, a stainless-steel Walther PPK. "Stop there, don't move."
Amadeo halted, eying the traffic and the opposite side of the road.
"You carrying dope? Good luck in getting that over the border."
"Not your concern, Mate. You should have minded your own business."
"Don't you have any idea about Turkish prisons? You'll never survive inside one of those."
"Not to worry." Peter seemed self-confident and in control. "Everything is taken care of."
The Danish couple emerged from the woods. Peter shouted to them, "In the van, now." He waved the pistol at Amadeo. "You — back to the trees."
"So you can shoot me in the back, no thanks."
Lars brushed past Amadeo and shoved the girl in the van. Before he could slam the door shut, Amadeo dashed across the road. A heavy truck braked hard, barely missing him. Peter sprinted around the van and popped off three shots. Amadeo disappeared unharmed into an opening between two mud brick huts
Moments later, the van started-up and roared-off down the busy highway. Amadeo stepped out and watched the yellow van vanish in the distance.
* * *
Lieutenant Abbasi sat at his desk and opened a folder. It held a copy of the photo of Amadeo circulated by the Marxist faction. One of his undercover contacts in the group had brought it to his attention only this morning.
He passed the folder across the desk to his assistant, Sergeant Farook. "Do you think it is a coincidence that the Communists are searching for this Fernandez, and we have a missing suspect named Fernandez?"
"Must be the same man."
"But why were they looking for him yesterday at the Intercontinental Hotel and today he turns up at this Khyber place?"
Farook shrugged. "Drugs. Maybe he needed drugs."
"That does not explain why the Communists were looking for him?"
"The informant does not know?"
Abbasi took another look at the photo. "He is a low-level union member. Bring him in, we will make him tell us more."
Tuesday AM, 8 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany
"Carlos Peatón Swissair 371 Beirut. Next story Turkey EDS." John Smith read the telex from Amadeo. It had just arrived from Madrid.
Jack grinned, "Carl Walker." He leafed through his Swissair timetable. "Arrived Beirut at 1035. We're four hours late."
"That flight doesn't terminate in Beirut, does it?"
"No, ends up in Zurich with stops in Istanbul and Geneva. Should still be in the air."
"I'll call my contacts in Zurich and have them check the flight anyway, you can never tell."
"EDS Turkey. You think he's headed for the border."
John nodded. "Yep. We need to make arrangements to meet him. Go downstairs and get some maps of the area, I'll call Zurich."
20 ~ Escape
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: West of Tehran
The bus was three quarters full. An older Mercedes headed for Qazvin, 150 kilometers west of Tehran. Not an intercity, but a local that collected passengers along the way. Amadeo had caught the bus two kilometers down the road when it stopped to let-off a family of local passengers at a village. His basic Farsi was good enough to not cause notice.
Amadeo reckoned Peter was carrying contraband. If Walker was involved, it had to be drugs. By the size of the package, it must have been a sizable amount of heroin fresh from a remote valley in Afghanistan. In any case, Peter was a poor shot. Amadeo was unscathed but had lost his bag. It was still in the van.
He fingered the film canisters. Chasing after what they hoped was evidence of Marsden's work for the Soviets had proven costly. He didn't want to think about how many lives had been lost. Were they worth it? All he knew was the Russians had made an all-out effort to stop the Raven-One team. Must be something there. He didn't have to reason why, just deliver the goods.
The kilometers passed slowly as the bus chugged along at a leisurely pace through the rocky monotonous terrain, a palette of browns, broken up the pale green of stands of low scrub brush, and the occasional herd of sheep. The bus stopped at every village, each one a collection of unremarkable mud brick dwellings, time had passed them by. Amadeo leaned his head back, a nap beckoned, but he needed to stay alert.
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: Police Headquarters. Tehran
The police informer, a rugged man with a heavy mustache, sat impassively in the interrogation room. Abbasi and Farook viewed him through a small one-way mirror.
"Twenty-minutes. He should be ready by now," said Abbasi. "You speak to him first."
Farook stepped through the door, paused in front of the informer, and opened a file. A third man joined Abbasi at the window. Captain Rezaei of the Ministry of the Interior assigned to monitor foreigners. Abbasi had sent for him. He was the security man who had freed Jack Richards.
Farook said, "I want more information on the foreigner. Why is Naheed's faction looking for him?"
"I told all I know, I—"
The sergeant slammed the file down on the table and leaned forward. "That is not good enough. You will tell me now or we will hand you over to the Komiteh. Do you understand?"
The mention of the Komiteh caught the man's attention, he straightened up in the chair. "I do not know their names."
Farook sat in the chair opposite. "So, there are others? Describe them."
"Two men, one an Iranian, perhaps an Aziri, and a foreigner with white hair."
"Go on, continue, describe this foreigner."
"He is European and walks with a cane, he has been injured."
"Does he speak Farsi?"
"No, only a few words. The other man interprets."
"This European, does he give orders to Naheed?"
"I do not understand what they say, but Comrade Naheed does not like the foreigner."
"Did the European see the photographs?"
"Yes, he took much interest in them."
"Did he say why?"
"No."
"What language did the European speak?"
"He spoke English to Naheed. When he spoke to the Aziri … sounded like voice from Radio Moscow."
Captain Rezaei said to Abbasi, "Let me see this file."
They entered the interrogation room and Abbasi handed him the file. Rezaei thumbed through the papers and halted at the photographs.
"The Russian recognized the man in this photo?" Rezaei asked the question with firm authority.
"Yes, his look of surprise was like yours just now."
Rezaei retreated to the other room and re-entered with his briefcase. He pulled out a binder of photographs and paged through to one near the end. He held up the picture.
"Is this the Russian?"
"Yes, it is him."
He flashed another picture.
&
nbsp; "Yes, that is the Aziri." The man's eyes brightened, he forced a faint smile. "May I go now?"
Rezaei turned his head to Abbasi. "Hold this man until I tell you to release him."
Farook took the man by the arm and hustled him out of the room.
The captain held up the photo of Amadeo. "This man was at the Intercontinental. The one called Fernandez. I have seen him there. But now you say he is a suspect in these killings?"
"Yes, we have proved he was there last night, but is missing this morning. The two men's pictures … who are they?"
"So-called Soviet diplomats. Their involvement is troubling. We have enough difficulties with the student seizure of the American Embassy." He paused in reflection. The Canadian, he was at the Intercontinental at the same time. "This man Fernandez. Find out when he arrived and bring me a list of all the passengers on that flight."
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: West of Tehran
"There it is," shouted Kazimov. The yellow van came in to view after the car driven by the burly Iranian comrade had passed a truck. It was two-hundred meters ahead. They had just passed a dusty village and a long stretch of well paved road lay ahead.
"Do we stop him now."
"No," said Kazimov. "We follow him to the next town. Too much traffic on the road. Stay back and do not let him know we are following.'
Kazimov's shoulders relaxed. He had a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the comrade major. They would seize the American posing as a Spaniard at the first opportunity.
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany
Jack spread the map out on the desk. "This is where the EDS people crossed the border. It's off the beaten track, south of the main crossing between Turkey and Iran."
John stabbed the point with his finger. "Esendere. One of my contacts briefed me on the operation. It's a rugged area and it may be possible to cross through the mountains."
"Yeah, looks like a smuggler's paradise. Wonder how Ruiz got wind of it?"
"He was with me in D.C. at the time." Think that's when you were down at Bragg."
"Look at this — a highway landing strip southwest of the location. Could come in handy."
"If we had an aircraft. Don't think we'll have much luck on such short notice."
"Where's Barker when we need him?"
"How long you think it'll take him to make the border?"
Jack ran his finger across the chart. "A couple of days, if he's lucky."
"Ruiz makes his own luck. We better be ready ASAP. I'll check and see if we can hop an Air Force flight to Ankara. We'll have to improvise from there."
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: West of Tehran
"Slow … pull over here," ordered Kasimov. The yellow van had come to a halt beside the road, two hundred meters ahead. The Iranian driver jerked the wheel to the right, hit the brakes, and slid to a stop on the gravel.
By this time Kasimov had become resigned to the man's erratic driving. He muttered an obscene expression in Russian, comparing the man to a feckless camel driver. The KGB man's nerves were on edge after a near miss while passing a line of trucks a few kilometers back.
The Danish couple exited the rear doors and headed for a ruined mud brick wall. The girl tottered, bent over, and threw up. The man yanked the girl's arm and half-dragged her behind the wall.
Peter noticed the car behind them. He stepped out, walked to the rear, lit a cigarette, and leaned back on the rear door. The car had been following them for the last forty-five minutes. The sudden stop heightened his sense of paranoia. Were they the police? How did they know about the package? He had been cautious and followed his instructions to the letter. Or were they rivals trying to hijack his load? — The Spaniard. — He had to be in on it somehow.
"Three people only," said the driver to Kazimov. "You said there were four."
"He must still be inside," said Kazimov.
"That man is looking at us. He is curious."
Kazimov considered his narrowing options. This was as good as it was going to get. Grab him while he is still inside and unaware, they were there. The lieutenant checked his pistol and reinserted it in his pocket.
"Now, let's go. I'll go to the right side, you take the left. Ali, you follow us and take care of the man with the cigarette."
They sprung out of the sedan and jogged towards the van. Kazimov kept his hand on the hidden pistol, not wanting to display it to the oncoming traffic.
Peter knew at once — the men were trouble. He threw down his smoke and reached for his pistol.
Kazimov saw the sun's reflection off the barrel, but it was too late. Peter nailed him in the chest with his first shot. The KGB man surged on, staggered, and was brought to ground with a second shot to the knee. He rolled to a halt in the dust and gravel, his Makarov at his side.
The Iranian driver panicked. He didn't have a weapon and sprinted for the wall. Peter rolled him with a shot to the head. The third man reversed course and ran for the car. Peter tracked him in his sights and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Peter looked in disgust at the locked-back slide, he was out of ammunition.
The third man dashed past the car and headed down the road. Peter pushed the pistol into his waistband and looked up and down the road, no vehicles had stopped. He wheeled around, jumped in the cab, and sped off to the west. The Danish man peered over the wall and surveyed the grisly scene. The girl, standing beside him, showed no emotion as if the carnage had been an everyday event.
* * *
The Mercedes bus pulled to a halt behind a line of traffic stopped in the highway. The passengers murmured about an accident ahead. The driver got out and walked up the road, followed by a gaggle of curious young men. Amadeo chose to stay in his seat.
A few minutes later, an exited teenaged boy appeared at the door babbling about a bandit attack and two dead bodies. Amadeo rose from his seat and made his way outside.
The first thing he noticed was the Danish couple standing off to the side. He looked around for the yellow van, it was not there. Two bodies sprawled in the gravel, no one had thought to cover them. No police were in sight. He moved closer. The man by the wall was the man who had been watching the hotel. He recognized the other man as the one with the pistol. It lay beside him.
A paranoid wave of speculation floated through the spectators. Some blamed the deaths on bandits, others on counter-revolutionaries, one man blamed the CIA. An excited boy was sure James Bond had done the deed. A siren howled in the distance. Not wanting to be seen by the Danes or questioned by the police, he slipped to the back of the crowd and headed for the bus.
Did Peter kill the men? He had a weapon, but he had missed me, thought Amadeo. Looks like these guys got caught out in the open, not dodging through traffic. But who are they? So far, he wasn't connected with the van, but that would change once they questioned the Danish couple. There was nothing he could do but retreat to the anonymity of the bus and hope for the best.
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: Police Headquarters. Tehran
Abbasi handed Rezaei the Lufthansa flight manifest from the second of November. The captain checked the incoming flights. Jack and Amadeo were on the same flight.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Abbasi. The captain had not told him why he wanted the documents.
Something did not add up for Rezaei. A pair of Soviet's, most likely KGB, and two other foreigners, a Canadian and a Spaniard. And killing at a drug hotel frequented by Europeans. They are connected somehow. Find Fernandez, he is the key.
"Yes." He glanced up at the lieutenant. "We must find this Fernandez."
Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: Qazvin, Iran
The Mercedes bus entered the environs of Qazvin as the sun began to dip low in the cloudless sky. Amadeo had kept a sharp lookout for the yellow van, to no avail. So far, he had been able to blend in with the passengers by pretending to nap and not engaging in conversation.
He almost missed the van parked off to the side at a gas station on the way into
the city. He started to get up and tell the driver he wanted off, but the bus made a right turn into the adjoining terminal.
Amadeo carefully made his way through the parked busses and approached the gas station from the rear. He peered over a wall and spotted the van sitting alone. No sign of Peter.
The cinder block wall extended to the left and then to the street. Amadeo edged along, ducking low to avoid detection, and halted near the van. A second peek showed the coast was clear. He vaulted over the wall and ducked in behind the van.
No sound from inside. He eased forward, keeping an eye on the station, and looked inside the driver's side window. Nothing. He couldn't make out if the van was occupied or if the package was still there. He eased the door open and glanced in. The van was empty, no Peter and no package. His bag was still under the passenger seat, he grabbed it and slipped away.
He decided to wait and check the van again later. First, he had to change his appearance. Too many people had seen his current attire. After a quick kebab at a food stand in the bus terminal, he headed into town.
The streets were alive with evening shoppers. More women wore the black hijab in adherence to recent stricter religious customs. The city had a different feel than Tehran, the people dressed more traditional and less western. An open stall on a side street held a collection of used clothing more suitable to the area. Fifteen minutes later, Amadeo left with a bundle holding a new outfit.
The van was still in place. He watched it for the next hour, changing viewing positions every few minutes. Had Peter abandoned the vehicle or was he holed up some place? If the police questioned the Danes, they would surely tell them about the distinctive van. Peter wasn't a total dummy, he would ditch it and find another way out of Iran.
Amadeo changed into his new outfit in the bus terminal rest room, leaving his old jacket hanging in a toilet stall. The flat cap was stashed in his pocket for future use and his head was covered with a traditional headwrap favored by the locals. He now fit in.
The bus schedules offered a variety of routes out of town, the most promising a ten-hour jaunt to Tabriz for 250 Rials. If he was going to make it to the Turkish border crossing, he would have to go through Tabriz. A look at a large wall map showed there was also a rail link to Tabriz. Which would offer the most security? He decided to get a taxi and check out the train.
