Exit wound

40

I came round feeling like I’d been on a four-day bender. My mouth was as dry as sand and my teeth were coated with fur. I breathed out and the blanket bounced it back at me. It wasn’t my best day out.

I forced my eyes open and looked around. I was in an orange jumpsuit. I was in a cell. There weren’t any windows, just a fluorescent light with a mesh cover fixed flush with the ceiling. The walls were plain plaster. I could see scrawls in English. There was a familiar institutional smell, a mixture of school dinners and cleaning fluid.

I vaguely remembered being moved and shoved about…lying on a stretcher… the horrible feeling of waking up wet because I’d pissed myself.

I rubbed my face. My hands grazed a good two days’ worth of stubble.

They definitely had eyes on me. It wasn’t more than a minute before I heard boots squeaking down a corridor. I studied the sheet-metal door. There was no peephole or any of that stuff off The Bill. There’d be fibre-optics or some sort of shit chased into the walls.

Keys jangled and the lock turned with a heavy clunk. I got my head under my arms, curled up and waited.

The door burst open and boots and blue trousers headed my way. They were black Hi-Tec, high-leg boots. This was feeling more familiar by the second. I ventured an eye upwards to see two Brit policemen in white short-sleeved shirts, one balding, one with a shaven head. Neither looked in much of a mood to fuck about. They grabbed hold of me. The shaven-headed one had ginger-freckled hands. He did the business with issue cuffs, the ones with a rigid link between them. Even the sight of those was comforting.

His massive fist closed around the link and jerked me to my feet. No words, just actions. He tugged the link behind him and I followed as fast as I could to relieve the pain of the steel against my wrists. My legs took a while to spark up and I had to keep my arms horizontal.

Metal doors lined the narrow corridor. Every one of them was closed, and the ID plates bore no name, blood group or religion. Either I was the only one in here, or they were playing mind games.

Were they trying to disorient me? Then why wear watches that agreed with the big wall clock ahead of us? They all said just after three o’clock. A.m. or p.m., what did I care? At least I wasn’t lying dead on an airstrip or banged up next to Sherry’s old man. Whatever, it was time to buckle up. Things could still get hairy, depending who had brought me here.

They hauled me into an interrogation room. Why they called them interview rooms I hadn’t a clue. We all knew what went on inside them.

The steel table in the middle had four tubular legs bolted to the floor. The two bench seats either side were also fixed. The walls were cream. The paint, I could smell, was fresh. I wondered what had happened to the last occupant to prompt a makeover.

Fluorescent lights were set into the ceiling, like in the cell. Nothing to grab, nothing to pull out.

The two handlers’ boots squeaked over the polished tiles and came to a halt. They turned me round and plonked me by the bench furthest from the door. I kept looking down. My bare feet had left a trail of sweaty prints across the floor.

I was allowed to sit myself down, but they attached my cuffs to the retaining chain welded to the table. I was free to move my hands, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

They turned and left the room. I was being watched, of course. There weren’t any two-way mirrors. This place had cameras in each corner.

I sat there with the strange sense of comfort that came from being somewhere that felt familiar. Red Ken and Dex had been right. There was no way I was going to fester in a Dubai jail.

The squeaks came down the corridor once more, and the door was unbolted. It wasn’t Ginger who came in armed with two steaming mugs, but Julian, the Premiership player from the funeral.

He unbuttoned his single-breasted pinstripe. Even though he was dressed like an upmarket estate agent, always had an annoyingly perfect Windsor knot in his tie and an immaculately pressed, double-cuffed shirt, I had him down as one of the good guys from the Security Service.

I’d been hoping this had something to do with him, and couldn’t hide my relief. But now that he was in front of me I couldn’t be sure if it was going to be good or bad. After all, he still had me chained up.

At least he was smiling. That made me feel a little better.

I smiled weakly back. ‘Hello, mate.’

The door closed behind him but it wasn’t locked. Ginger and his baldy mate would be hovering just in case I did a Houdini and went for the throat of one of MI5’s big cheeses.

He sat down opposite me and passed across a mug of mud-coloured instant. ‘I’m not sure if you wanted it, but I added sugar.’

I picked it up between my manacled hands and went to get it down my neck. Old habits die hard. You never know when the next one’s coming, or whether they’ll whisk this one away just as you take your first sip.

Julian put down his mug. His expression was sympathetic, but his body language was confident and assured. On the phone, he sounded like he’d shared a school desk with Dex. Maybe he had. If I hadn’t had to keep this job from the others, I might have asked old Biggles if they’d ever run the 100 metres together.

I got the brew in both hands and did the squaddie trick of testing my tongue against the mug. Gulp straight from a metal mug and you could peel the roof off your mouth. It was too hot. That was a good sign. It meant I was trusted with scalding liquids.

He looked at me with concern. ‘It wasn’t us who wanted you lifted, Nick. I hope you know that.’

I held up the cuffs. ‘What about these, mate?’

‘In case you misunderstood why you’re here.’

‘You got any water? I’m gagging here.’

He looked over my shoulder and nodded.

I shifted on the hard seat. ‘They’re both dead – so’s Spag.’

For a moment, he looked defeated. I knew he wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Why would he have compromised the job before the end?

‘I guess it made sense for them to drop the four of us after we delivered. The three bar they paid us in advance is peanuts compared to what they’ve got now.’

I stopped talking shop as the door opened and Ginger delivered two bottles of Tesco’s own sparkling and a couple of white plastic cups. Fuck knows why – everything was being recorded and there were plenty of people listening in. ‘Where am I, Julian?’

He gave Ginger a nod. He seemed a bit confused, having a white guy in these cells. ‘Paddington.’

That made sense. Out came the keys as Ginger was given the go-ahead to unlock.

Julian had recruited me immediately after Tenny’s death. Up until then, Tenny had been Julian’s man on the crew. He’d applied to join the Security Service when he’d finished his time. This was to have been his early entry job. Red Ken and Dex hadn’t had a clue what was going on. All they knew was that they were getting fronted by Spag, and it was a commercial job for their own slice of the world’s best steak. Then Tenny’d got zapped, and that was why I was here.

I’d accepted the job on the same condition that Tenny had: Red Ken and Dex would never be prosecuted, and they – we – would lose in the Isle of Man whatever cash was left. I had a document tucked away to prove it, signed by the prime minister himself. As I’d told Red Ken at the mall, I was looking out for them both. Mates have to cover each other’s back, because no one else will. I just wished I’d done a better job of it.

My task had been simple: follow the gold, find out who handled it, find out what it bought and from whom. Then follow the weapons, drugs, trafficked women or whatever, and find out who planned to use them. Only then would the job be compromised – once Julian could be sure of hitting everybody in the chain. There’d be a terrorist connection somewhere along the line. This job had one for sure – it was just that Julian didn’t know who, where, when or how.

Julian had been on Spag’s case from the moment he’d come into the UK to recruit Red Ken, who had brought in Dex and Tenny. That was what the Security Service did: they protected the UK. Spag had been making hay while the war on terror’s sun was shining. The problem was, since binning the CIA he’d been doing it for the wrong side. No one could claim he wasn’t loyal: he’d had a long-running love affair with the greenback.

I’d been part of HMG’s revised Counter-terrorism Strategy, CONTEST. It felt strange to be part of a strategy. Its four strands, known as the four Ps, were:

Pursue terrorists wherever they are and stop terrorist attacks;

Prevent people from becoming terrorists or supporting violent extremism;

Protect the UK by strengthening our defence against terrorism; and

Prepare to respond to an attack to lessen its impact.

The first P was where I came in.

Ginger left the room, still looking a bit perplexed. The last time the high-security cells at Paddington Green had played host to white faces, they’d had Irish accents.

With some Tesco’s own tipped into the brew I could start getting the muddy liquid down my neck.

Julian sat there, watched and waited. I liked and trusted him, and you didn’t get many of those to the pound. In all the dealings I’d had with him so far, he’d played it absolutely straight. He was the one who’d pushed for the MOU, the memorandum of understanding covering their immunity from prosecution. He might just have been an excellent conman who’d fuck me over like the rest of these people always had – but my instincts told me he was a good guy in a world full of bottom-feeders.

I knew what he was waiting for. ‘It was a French-built Dassault Falcon. The reg was RF89702.’

He didn’t have to write anything down. He had people to do that for him.

‘I had to be careful not to piss off Spag or the lads by banging on and asking too much.’ I took another sip. ‘But, Jules, I saw a face.’

Go on.

I explained everything that had happened on the ground. I went through the whole job, finishing with the face at the cargo door and the shoot-out. I even came close to telling him that not all the gold had left the country, but something held me back. Maybe I sensed he didn’t want to know. A man like Julian would always feel he had to do the right thing. The cash might be pissed against a wall via some MP’s expense account, but he would have done his duty.

‘How did the UAE ping us?’

‘Spicciati was flagged up by their internal security. They don’t have too many illusions about him. They pinged him playing golf with three Brits and came to us after finding out where you were staying.

‘We’ve done a deal with them. They don’t want any adverse publicity or talk of anti-terror operations within their borders. They still have no idea about the gold. They were supposed to lift all three of you so we could bring you back here for questioning. We hoped they wouldn’t get you until after the gold had left the country. That would keep the UAE happy, while removing any potential problem and still keeping the operation covert.’

‘You going to try and find the lads’ bodies?’

He’d known Red Ken and Dex even less well than I knew Sherry, but I could tell he was genuinely upset about them. ‘If the bodies were left at the strip they would have been found by now. Anything picked up by UAE will have been made to disappear. They don’t want anything to dull their shine. But the guys who killed them probably took them in the aircraft for op sec. I’m afraid I don’t think we’ll ever see them again.’

‘What about next of kin? How are you going to cover it?’

‘The normal, I suppose: no knowledge of anything, and if the bodies show up the Foreign Office will put it down to criminal activity.’ Julian got to his feet. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and into your own clothes. I’ll see if we can get the ball rolling for the Canadian couple. I’ll be back soon.’

He got up but didn’t turn for the door. ‘Nick, I’m very sorry about Red and Dex. I know you all went way back.’

‘Yep, we did, mate. Let’s find these fuckers, yeah?’

41

Julian came back into the interview room about two hours later with a pile of blue folders under his arm. ‘Nice work, Nick. Nice work.’ He dropped them onto the table as he sat down. ‘We know who owns the Falcon. Well, which country. It’s the Federation.’

I tried not to laugh because he didn’t. ‘Captain Kirk at the wheel?’

I knew he meant Russia, but I was feeling a lot better now after my shit, shave, shower, and getting back into my own clothes – and, of course, after the full English in the police cafe upstairs. All my stuff had been packed and brought from the hotel room. My pink golfing shirt looked a bit out of place in the interrogation room, but not as much as Julian’s suit and blue striped shirt with white collar and cuffs.

‘At the helm, actually, I think you’ll find.’ He shoved the folder across to me. ‘Space, the final frontier…’

I leafed through endless pictures of Middle Eastern males – posing, swimming, eating, alone and in family groups. ‘I’m looking for the face, right?’

‘Correct. We’ve tracked the Falcon to Tehran. So these-’ he slammed his hand onto the folders ‘- these are Iranians who we believe have connections with the Russians. Russian arms trade, terrorism, you name it. Go through them, see what you come up with.’

He stood up and left.

There must have been a couple of hundred photographs, but it didn’t take long to go through them. Just as well. Julian was back within thirty minutes with more. By then I had just a handful of pictures spread out in front of me and the rest were piled up on the table next to my empty coffee cup.

He sat down next to me.

I’d picked out a selection of faded black-and-whites of a man in his twenties with a full head of curly hair. The focus was fuzzy, but the clothes and winged American pimpmobile he was posing against pegged it to the seventies.

‘You sure, Nick?’

I nodded. I’d never forget that face – proud cheekbones, a big Roman nose, and those eyes… ‘These must have been taken thirty years ago – I reckon he must be in his sixties now – but the eyes haven’t changed. Yeah, this is almost certainly the man I saw… how many nights ago?’

‘You’ve been in transit two days.’

‘So who is he?’

I looked up at the camera. ‘Any chance of another brew?’ I gave the universal gesture.

Julian stared down at our man. He tapped one of the pictures with a well-manicured finger. ‘We don’t know his name. We call him Altun. It’s Farsi for “golden”. Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘How do you lads come up with them?’

‘I blame the computer – it just spews them out. The Americans are using the same codename.’ He raised his bottle of Tesco’s sparkling. ‘Here’s to the Special Relationship.

‘This is the last known picture of him.’ He tapped it with a fingernail. ‘Taken in Tehran, just before the Islamic Revolution.’

The cell door opened and Ginger came in with two proper mugs and a couple of mini-packets of ginger nuts. I was still in a good mood. ‘Family recipe?’

He laughed. He was all right. I’d had a brew with him in the canteen over breakfast. He’d even apologized for giving my wrists the good news.

Julian wasn’t one for distractions. ‘He was a student when Khomeini took power in ’seventy-nine. He spent four years piecing together documents that the Shah had shredded before he fled. Imagine working on the world’s biggest jigsaw puzzle, day after day.’

‘So what’s he doing now, on a Russian aircraft? Doesn’t sound good, mate.’

Julian’s jaw hardened as he opened one of his new folders. ‘He’s Iran’s backroom negotiator. He makes the deals with the Taliban, Iraqi insurgents, Hezbollah – any extremist group that needs training, support, weapons. In fact, anyone Iran supports against the West.’ He passed over the folder. ‘We have a big problem, Nick. That aircraft is not just any Russian aircraft. It’s Russian government – hence the RF marking. That would be bad enough, but worse still, the plane really belongs to M3C.’

‘The rapper? He a mate of yours?’

The most recent folder was brimming with brochures. Like any other company on the planet with something to sell, Moscow Missile Manufacturing Complex didn’t hold back on the glossy marketing bumph. The only difference was that M3C wasn’t flogging shower units or timeshares by the Black Sea.

We sat there in silence. I was sure we were thinking the same thing. Had Saddam’s doors been used as payment for some of this shit? If so, where was it going to end up, and who was going to be on the receiving end?

Julian grimaced. ‘Scary thought, isn’t it? Can you imagine a C-130 full of troops or an Apache getting shot down over Kandahar? Or missiles coming into this country, taking out commercial flights on their way into Heathrow? The good citizens of Putney won’t be too pleased if a giant Airbus comes down their chimney.’

I dunked my ginger nut and gave it a munch. ‘Not good, mate, not good. But I’m in north London. I don’t think I’m on a flight path.’

He wasn’t about to let himself be thrown off course. ‘It’s becoming increasingly obvious that the US cannot stabilize Afghanistan or Pakistan. This company’s activities could result in a mountain of body bags. If domestic pressure made Obama pull out, China would close its borders with Pakistan and establish a Pak-Taliban pact. Iran would then pull out all the stops in Afghanistan, just as it has in Iraq. And nuclear India? They won’t just stand by and watch. They’d be forced to take action against a nuclear Pakistan.’

He turned down my offer of a biccie. ‘Then we all bunker down and wish we were born two hundred years ago.’

‘You’d have been singing “Old Man River”.’

I finally got a smile. ‘While we’re on the subject of slavery, I have a job for you. More CONTEST.’

I didn’t reply, but I didn’t have to.

‘The Falcon landed in Tehran. There were no stopovers, so that’s where the gold was taken. There’s an arms fair starting there in three days, and M3C is an exhibitor. You’re the only one who might be able to make a positive ID of our prime suspect. I want you to find this guy Altun and get me an up-to-date photograph. I want to know who he meets, where and why. Maybe then we can find out what’s being sold and to whom.’

Julian went into smile overdrive. ‘Today Paddington. Tomorrow Tehran. We’ll finish my briefing here, then there’s someone across town who needs your full attention.’

‘Can’t I go home first and get some real gear on?’ I tugged at my polo shirt.

‘Don’t worry about it. Trinny and Susannah won’t be there.’

42

DIS building, London

Sunday, 3 May

1430 hrs

We walked the three miles from Paddington Green to Whitehall. After two days of incarceration, Julian thought I’d want to stretch my legs. While we were at it, he briefed me on the DIS and Squadron Leader Gavin Kettle.

According to their website, the mission of the Defence Intelligence Staff was to provide ‘timely intelligence products, assessments and advice to the Ministry of Defence to guide decisions on policy and commitment and employment of the UK’s armed forces, to inform defence procurement decisions and to support military operations’. Alongside MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, it went on, DIS also contributed to the UK’s threat assessment picture at any given time. Despite the general cutbacks, the DIS still seemed to be relatively well resourced.

‘Just don’t mention weapons of mass destruction,’ Julian had said. ‘They still can’t see the funny side of that particular load of bollocks.’

If this man ever did make it to the top, the Queen could sleep easy in her bed at night. The security of her dominions would be in good hands.

‘You ever had dealings with them?’

I shook my head. Not in ten years with the Regiment, or the same again as a deniable operator.

‘Well, they have in excess of four thousand staff on their books. More than six hundred are threat analysts. They’re good at what they do.’

Julian didn’t spot the box that had been left a couple of feet inside Squadron Leader Kettle’s doorway. He only stopped himself falling by shoulder-charging a filing cabinet. A couple of box files crashed to the floor, spilling old aircraft magazines across the well-worn carpet tiles.

I came in behind him. The office, without air-conditioning, smelt like a teenage boy’s bedroom, right down to the lingering whiff of illegal nicotine.

A stern-faced man in his early forties knelt to pick up the mags with the reverence of the obsessive collector. He wore a check flannelette shirt and brown tie that reminded me of the bed sheets I used to have as a kid. A half-eaten prawn sandwich lay next to an old-fashioned light box on his desk. Strips of film were scattered across the backlit glass. I’d thought transparencies had gone out with the Ark. Timely intelligence products? Binning the 35mm and going digital would have been a good place to start.

The squadron leader finished gathering up his mags, then retrieved the upturned box and set it on his desk. Using both hands, he carefully removed something resembling a mirror, roughly the size of a jam-pot lid, attached to a random collection of cogs and springs from an ancient grandfather clock.

He held it up to the window and gave it the once-over.

Double-glazing muffled the rumble of traffic and squeals from the excited Italian teenagers we’d passed minutes earlier as they jumped over the lions at the bottom of Nelson’s column and posed for each other’s camera phones. The stone of the plinths matched the colour of Kettle’s classic RAF handlebar moustache.

Thirty seconds had passed without any form of verbal or eye contact between us. Maybe the squadron leader wasn’t too happy about being called into the office on a weekend.

Julian tried to break the ice. ‘What’s that thing?’

Kettle glanced up and peered at us both for the first time. ‘That thing is the seeker-head of an AA-11 Archer – a Russian air-to-air missile.’

Julian was probably as unmoved as I was, but he was better at disguising it. ‘I thought you were a surface-to-air specialist?’

Kettle thawed a little. ‘I am. But during the nineties the Serbs adapted the AA-11 to fire from truck-mounted ground-launchers. It was surprisingly effective.’ He glanced between the seeker-head and Julian’s foot. ‘Lucky the Russians built them to last, eh?’

I pointed at the light box. ‘Holiday snaps?’

All Julian’s good work was undone. Kettle put the seeker-head down and stared at me. ‘You must be the chap who’s taking my place.’

Once my MoE into Iran had been agreed, somebody senior would have told him the good news: after months of anticipation he wouldn’t, after all, be going to Tehran; his place had been taken by someone else.

If Kettle was looking at me the way Dex had examined his plastic glass on the Emirates flight, it was with good reason. Julian had warned me that, for DIS specialists like him, field trips to events like IranEx were the culmination of years of mind-numbing analysis work that would have taken him no further than his office.

Kettle had built up a picture of what the Iranians were up to in the SAM (surface-to-air missile) weapons arena, increasingly vital with the current threat of first strikes by the US and the Israelis against Iranian nuclear facilities. He would have been aware that his meticulously crafted briefing documents on Iranian air defences were required reading within the Firm and the Ministry of Defence, occasionally even landing on a minister’s desk. The IranEx trip would have been his reward – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity now the Iranians, eager for press coverage of their indigenous weapons industry, had decided to throw their doors open to the international media.

Kettle’s cover had been prepared long ago. He’d be travelling as a writer for a defence publication called Aerospace and Defence Technology Monthly – ADTM to those in the trade. His alias: James Manley, ex-RAF, divorced, and trying to make it in the notoriously badly paid world of freelance defence journalism. His passport was ready. His visa was ready. For several years he’d submitted articles under his assumed name to the wholly innocent editor of ADTM.

And at the moment he was all set to go – just as he was about to take the Labrador for a walk and pick up the Sundays – he’d had the phone call telling him to get into the office and brief someone who was going to fill his slot. After all that hard work he’d been mugged by some dickhead who didn’t know SAM from Samantha and didn’t even talk proper.

Julian looked at his watch. ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other. We don’t have much time and you have quite a lot to talk about.’ He paused by the door. ‘Call me as soon as you’re through and be as quick as you can. There’s a lot more to do before tomorrow.’

Kettle turned and gave me a look like I’d just run over his dog.

43

‘Listen, mate.’

There was nothing matey about his tone. The room temperature had dropped several degrees as soon as Julian closed the door. Fair one – in his shoes I’d have been pissed off too.

‘There’s nothing unusual about DIS posing as a freelance defence journalist. It happens all the time. The Russians know it happens. We know it happens. Bet you a penny to a pound, the Iranians know it happens, too. Defence exhibitions, no matter where they are, end up crawling with spooks. So, mate, whoever you are, at least you’ve got that going for you.’

Kettle had known better than to ask my name and I hadn’t volunteered it. I still hadn’t shaken his hand. The only good things were that I no longer noticed the smell and he hadn’t offered me a bite of his sandwich.

‘Right, so you want the one-oh-one on the fledgling Iranian missile industry so you can be James Manley, eh?’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘How long have we got?’

I hated briefings. And I hated government buildings – especially dust-filled places like this one. They brought back too many bad memories of too many bollockings. Besides, I just needed enough to make my cover story sound like I knew what I was on about. I was there for something more important than geeking up. I couldn’t wait to get out.

‘No more than two hours.’

Kettle went over to the filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He riffled through it, yanking out sheets of paper as he went. They turned out to be magazine articles.

‘Take them with you. Don’t worry, they’re all open-source – some recent pieces from Jane’s Defence Weekly and Aviation Week on the state of the Iranians’ air defences. You can bone up on it at your leisure, but here’s the short version. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing them as a bunch of no-hope, clueless Islamofascist rag-heads – they’re not. Since the Shah got deposed, they’ve built up an incredibly successful aerospace and defence industry. It’s in their blood. They’ve had to, given all the arms embargoes that have been imposed upon them over the years.’

I glanced at the articles. From everything I’d read, the embargoes had proved about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. ‘They’ve been getting technical assistance from everyone on Baby Bush’s axis-of-evil list, haven’t they?’

Kettle shut one drawer and opened another. ‘Plus some that aren’t even on the list yet. But then again, necessity is the mother of invention.’

‘So what invention shit have they been up to?’

‘No need for that.’ He clearly wasn’t a big fan of profanity. Maybe it was because it was Sunday. He threw some more homework my way. ‘Take their air-defence network. It’s a mish-mash of old Soviet stuff and missiles that the Americans abandoned when the Shah left in a hurry. The Iranians have watched and learnt. They’ve not only reverse-engineered spare parts but, where necessary, they’ve improved upon the actual hardware. For the past decade or two, this has been sufficient to ward off any threats they might face, but with the Israelis and the Americans back in sabre-rattling mode, they need something a little more effective. Which is where IranEx enters the equation. Or would have. For me, I mean.’

Kettle gathered a few more articles into an envelope, scrawled ‘Russia’ across it, and chucked it onto his desk. ‘Technology transfer between Russia and Iran has been particularly active – albeit at a covert level. In 1998, UN sanctions were issued against a number of Russian organizations – state research facilities as well as companies – that had supplied technical expertise to Iran’s ballistic-missile effort. Not unnaturally, that’s where most of the world’s attention has been focused. After all, it’s the ballistic missiles that will carry the weapons of mass destruction, nuclear and otherwise, that threaten the West. But we know that Russian co-operation with the Iranian state weapons industry goes way beyond that.’

I had a long night ahead of me. ‘What do you know about M3C?’

‘Moscow Missile Manufacturing Complex. They Anglicized it to M3C. Less of a mouthful on the international circuit, where they compete against the big boys from the US and Europe. M3C used to be three different Soviet-era weapons entities until somebody, somewhere, read a book on market economics and decided it was better to lump all Russia’s missile expertise under one roof, like every other country does.

‘M3C make everything from anti-tank missiles to space launch vehicles. The way they read the rules, there’s nothing wrong with lending assistance to the Iranians as long as it’s for defensive purposes or ends up in space. That’s not exactly how I’d interpret the rules of the Missile Technology Control Regime, but in Putin’s Russia, nobody much seems to care as long as it brings in the bacon – and, trust me, when it comes to hard cash, the Iranians have petro-dollars aplenty to splash about. Have you ever been to a defence exhibition?’

I shook my head, although that wasn’t exactly true – I’d once been to the British Army Equipment Exhibition during my time in the Regiment, but I couldn’t be arsed to explain. I just wanted him to keep waffling.

‘There are a number of elements to any exhibition that are important to journalists. The first is the press centre. Every major defence exhibition has a place set aside for the media, a place the hacks can go to file their stories, meet up and grab a beer.’ He laughed. ‘Although that clearly won’t be an option in Iran.

‘The press centre will keep you informed as to whether there are any announcements that day and whether the major news conferences are due to be held in the dedicated conference centre or in one of the chalets of the exhibiting companies.’

‘Chalets?’ He made it sound like a ski resort.

‘An exhibition area is divided into exhibition space, usually in covered areas, where the companies show off their hardware, and chalet areas where their execs do all their hobnobbing.’

‘So what are the magic words to get you in?’

‘I’m sure Iranian Revolutionary Guards will be on hand to ensure that hacks don’t wander where they’re not supposed to. But in a Western defence exhibition – Farnborough or Paris or IDEX – they let accredited media into the chalet area. The big companies like to keep the press onside. I don’t know how it will be in Iran. You’ll just have to play it by ear.’

He glanced at the Russian missile seeker that was now sitting on his desk like some bizarre executive toy.

I followed his gaze. ‘You nick that?’

Kettle smiled for the first time. ‘Let’s just say there’s a Russian exhibitions manager who’s probably still in the gulag, or wherever Russians keep their miscreants these days. Anybody could have nicked anything at that particular show – Farnborough ’ninety-two. It just happened to be me.’

‘I hope it was worth it.’

‘Certainly was. We hadn’t seen this particular variant of the seeker-head before. That’s why defence exhibitions are such good value.’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘I have no idea why you’re going in and it’s none of my business. I just hope thatit’s – as you say – worth it.’ He looked at the clock. We were out of time. I picked up the envelope and the other material he’d selected for me and headed for the door.

‘One other thing…’

I turned to see him playing with the seeker-head.

‘The new SA-16M. Read about it in your notes. The missile’s seeker has some kind of fault. It’s important that we know what it is, and what they’re doing to correct it. That was my sole reason for going to IranEx. Any information you can find about the 16M is vitally important to DIS.’

The moment I closed the door behind me I pictured him grabbing his Nick Stone voodoo doll from the filing cabinet and jabbing its bollocks with pins.

44

Monday, 4 May

1039 hrs

As the Galaxy people-carrier sped west along the A4 by the Chiswick flyover, I gazed out at the high-rise office construction projects stalled by the credit crunch and wondered how the skyline would look in Tehran.

Julian had handed over all the supporting documentation I’d need – passport and business cards in the name of James Manley, a letter of commission from the editor of ADTM, a media visa from the Iranian embassy – and I’d been boning up all night on the country pack and more int on Altun. Sitting next to me, his eyes closed, Julian seemed to be doing some quiet reflection of his own.

The traffic bunched on the Heathrow spur road. I reached down for Kettle’s envelope. I’d have a couple of hours at the airport and a good few more en route to Tehran, but I had a lifetime of plane-spotting to catch up on.

I pulled out a clutch of papers marked ‘Technology’ in the squadron leader’s spidery handwriting. There was a note attached with a paperclip to some cuttings on an advanced handheld missile.

Mate, Anything the Iranians are publishing on the SA-16M is of interest to us. Get whatever you can lay your hands on in the way of brochures and leaflets. Take as many photographs as they’ll let you, and a few more if you can. We can never use enough imagery in this place.

M stands for ‘modification’ in Russian. We know that M3C has developed this missile, but very little information has been released about the improvements. We need to know if the malfunction rumours carry any weight. Get whatever you can; nothing is wasted. And good luck.

I started laughing to myself and Julian opened his eyes. ‘What?’

‘Kettle’s given me some homework.’ I handed him the note. If it was going to self-destruct in five seconds I didn’t want to be the one holding it.

‘Not such a bad idea. Having something to do – something legitimate, I mean – will help you blend in.’

He wasn’t wrong. The more I looked like I belonged, the better.

The Galaxy pulled up outside Terminal 3. It was less than a week since I’d been here with Red Ken and Dex. At least this time I wasn’t in golfing pink. It was back to Timberlands, jeans and shirt. I’d left all my cover golfing clothes and the cheap and cheerful Tesco’s funeral outfit – to down-gear me in the doing-well stakes – in a bin liner outside my local Oxfam.

I pulled my holdall from the boot, and the day-sack containing my Nikon, laptop and briefing notes.

Julian held out his hand.

It was the first time I’d ever shaken any of my bosses by the hand and meant it. They normally coerced me into this shit. But this time? I wanted to go.

‘Will you recognize him again?’

‘With my mates’ blood still wet on his shoes? He could have body doubles, plastic surgery or spent the last few days shoving Mars bars down his neck to become a fat fuck, but nothing will disguise his eyes, Jules. That’s what’ll tell me I’ve got him.’

I didn’t tell him that for me this wasn’t just about taking Altun’s picture and sharpening up his CV. But I didn’t think he’d be particularly surprised. I headed into the terminal.

I’d put on the jokey fucking-about act for Julian’s benefit because I didn’t want him to stand me down from the job. I wanted him to use me. I wanted him to think that I was being practical about the situation.

Truth was, there was a bit more to this than revenge. I needed to square away my guilt. I couldn’t help feeling that I should have done more for Red Ken and Dex. Maybe I could have tried harder to talk them out of it. Maybe I could have been closer to them on the airstrip. That way, I might have reacted quicker. I knew the two of them would have called me a dickhead for thinking it, but they would also have understood.

They would also have expected me to get payback, and I wouldn’t let them down.

The terminal was its normal over-packed nightmare. I dodged the trolleys and manic wheelie-case runners as late passengers ran for their gates.

I wasn’t going to stitch up Julian. Why would I do that to the only friend I now had? I allowed myself a rueful smile. I must be going soft. Friendship was an accolade I didn’t hand out easily. Especially when I’d only known someone a few weeks.

I’d do what he wanted because there was stuff there that he needed to know. But after that I’d kill as many of the fuckers as I could get my hands on. I knew that wasn’t going to save the world but it would make me – and, if they were still keeping an eye on things, Red Ken and Dex – feel a whole lot better.

45

We hit some turbulence as we crossed the Persian Gulf, some rough stuff that toppled the Iranian businessman in the seat next to me headlong into my lap and prompted the lads in the row behind us to grab their Korans and start asking the all-merciful one to give the pilot a helping hand.

I manhandled the Iranian back into his all-too-narrow economy-class seat and got busy with Kettle’s crib-sheets – as you do when you’re off to work not knowing anything about the subject.

I knew all too well that if the Revolutionary Guards really wanted to grill me on what I ought to know after five years as a defence journalist, I’d be seriously in the shit – unless they were prepared to let me ask the audience or, better still, phone a friend.

The Iranian nuclear issue had demonstrated just how keen they were to stand on their own two feet and trade punches with the big boys. The list of countries suspected of helping Tehran with its reactors, enrichment sites and isotope separation plants was a long one. There wasn’t much point in building a nuclear bomb if you didn’t have the means to deliver it and the mullahs had been hard at work on that front too.

In 1985, they’d secretly funded North Korea to develop a long-range version of the Scud missile that Saddam had fired at Tel Aviv during the 1991 Gulf War. In exchange for the cash, North Korea gave Iran full access to the technology. Iran had had a long-range version of the Scud by the early nineties, but they had needed something even bigger. By 1998, with a lot of help from the Russians, the North Koreans and some key pieces of Chinese kit, they’d had the Shahab-3, capable of lobbing a 1,000-kilo warhead 1,300 kilometres – far enough not only to hit Israel but also Ankara, capital of NATO-aligned Turkey.

In spite of UN sanctions against companies in Russia, China and North Korea, the missile-building technology had continued to flow into Iran. By 2008, the Shahab-3’s range had increased to 2,000 kilometres, enough to threaten much of southern Europe. As Kettle had said, when it came to developing hardware, these guys had it in their blood. They weren’t just a bunch of goatherds who’d wandered out of the desert.

What the Iranians had achieved with their nuclear- and ballistic-missile programmes they’d repeated across other parts of their defence industry. The US had even given them a helping hand. In 1985, Oliver North had hopped on a plane to Tehran and cut a covert deal to supply spare parts for Iranian HAWK and TOW missile systems via Israeli intermediaries in return for a good few suitcases full of readies and the release of US hostages in Lebanon. The cash helped fund another illegal CIA operation – against the Sandinista government of Nicaragua. The Iran-Contra scandal worked its way into the press the following year. If Julian’s intel was right, it was what had given Altun his first taste of international power and money-broking. He’d been one of the young bloods in the background, learning everything he could – not only from his Iranian bosses, but from the Pentagon as well.

Once the Iranians had worked out how to build spare parts for their inventory of US fighter jets and missiles, they’d then set about creating their own platforms. Within the past five years they’d unveiled their own domestically produced combat aircraft, helicopters, tanks and submarines. These lads really were the region’s superpower.

I glanced at the guy now slobbering away happily in the next-door seat, and tried to square what I saw with what I read. I decided that whatever shortcomings he might have on the etiquette front, these people were on a roll.

I picked up the M3C file again and started to leaf through it.

The conglomerate’s breadth of capabilities was huge. It was literally a one-stop shop for any weapon you could think of.

In 1991, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia’s state-owned weapons industry had been made up of multiple companies, many of which were competing against each other for the same business at home and abroad. This state of affairs clearly made no sense at all, but had continued – for almost two decades – until a couple of years ago when an ex-KGB oligarch who’d developed interests right across the sector had persuaded his government to put the nation’s entire missile industry under one roof. His roof, naturally.

Even the Russian state media, which almost always toed the party line, had cried foul. Not that it had made any difference. Every oligarch knew his continued wellbeing depended on two things: where he happened to be sitting when the Soviet Union reverted to good old Mother Russia; and who he happened to know in the corridors of power.

Like most of his oligarch mates, this particular boy had been in the right place at the right time in 1991 – so much so that after the initial flurry of interest in the deal, the Russian media gave him and his business projects a wide berth. There wasn’t even a name check or picture of him.

M3C had offices in Moscow and production facilities along the river Volga between Moscow and Rybinsk. It also had its own weapons proving ground, a closed-off area inside a military training ground the size of Wales, to the east of a place called Vologda, about five hundred K to the north-east.

My next-door neighbour started to fart like a trooper. I reached up and adjusted the air-conditioner.