Exit Wound (17 page)

56

I slipped off the M3C stand and made my way to the exit furthest from the one I’d seen Majid jostled through. I pulled out the map of the exhibition centre and took a second to orient myself. The chalets were on the far side of the facility. A hatched line on the map indicated that they were segregated from the rest of the site by another level of security. The head shed didn’t want any Tom, Dick or Abdul invading their space as they talked business away from the prying eyes and ears of the exhibition halls. I wouldn’t even want to mix with people like me. If Altun was here, he’d want to be tucked away somewhere like that.

I passed through an exhibition hall filled with artillery pieces, rocket launchers and mortars, crossed the open area with the petal-strewn tank and fighter aircraft, and reached a barrier manned by a couple of AK-carriers. One was checking a pass by the driver’s window of a Toyota pick-up laden with bottles of mineral water and Zam Zam, Iran’s answer to Coca-Cola. I’d guzzled gallons of it in Afghanistan and got to quite like the stuff. It reminded me of the Strike Cola my mum used to buy in the Co-op to keep the dentist busy.

The guard returned the driver’s papers, raised the barrier and waved the truck through.

I flashed my press pass with the confidence that said, ‘Here it is, look at it, and fuck off,’ and kept moving. I ducked under the barrier and kept walking. Ahead of me was a row of single-storey executive Portakabins, with flags fluttering out front.

I pretended I knew where I was going and pressed on.

I found myself in a kind of avenue. The corporate hospitality suites stretched away to either side of me. There were clearly big bucks to be made here if you were in the mood to trade arms with the pariah state.

It was mid-morning and the sun was already high in the sky. The avenue was filled with people making their way to and from the chalets. Cars with blacked-out windows rolled past me. Crates of food and drink were off-loaded into kitchens. The aroma of spicy food hung in the air.

It was hardly the Excel Centre, but it was busy. Among the Russians, Ukrainians, Moldovans and a dozen other dodgy former members of the Soviet Good Lads Club, I was just another white face. No one paid me the slightest attention.

I pressed on, turning to give the M3C chalet the once-over as I did a walk-past. It was much like their stand, bigger and slicker than the competition. The M3C logo, a stylized arrow bisecting a circle with a red star in it, fluttered on the company flag. A couple of BG straight out of Central Casting flanked the glass entrance. They were wearing sun-gigs and suits that couldn’t hide the weapons beneath their jackets. Five feet beyond them, engines running, were three very shiny black Mercedes saloons.

I’d walked past the chalet when I heard a crackle.

I turned.

One BG had a radio up to his ear. He brought it down and waffled back.

The other half snapped to attention and pulled open the door.

A third BG waited in the front passenger seat of the middle Merc.

A moment later, a man with slicked-back hair, sun-gigs and a khaki windcheater stepped out into the sunshine. He paused, as if to smell the air, and looked about him. He seemed particularly pleased with himself. Then, escorted by one of the BG who’d been on the door, he walked slowly down the steps and slid into the Mercedes.

I had a possible.

57

I dropped onto one knee and made like I was tying a shoelace. I tried to get my Nikon up. Too late. The Mercedes pulled out of its parking slot and headed in the direction I’d just come from.

I doubled back as quick as I could against the flow of people.

It was an E-class, straight from the showroom. I scanned it quickly for a VDM (visual distinguishing mark). The plate meant nothing to me: it was in Farsi. I needed something to pull it from a sea of other vehicles. It had four doors, tinted windows and five-pointed, star-shaped aluminium wheel hubs; all bog-standard, which was how Altun would have liked it. The only thing that distinguished it from any other brand-new black E-class 350 was a mobile phone antenna mounted on the roof with its left-hand blade bent slightly upwards. A set of chintzy green curtains was drawn across the rear window to provide that extra little touch of anonymity.

Every now and again the driver encouraged pedestrians to move out of the way with a blast of the horn. As the crowd parted, the car surged forward ten metres or so. It reached the Zam Zam barrier. I kept on fighting my way through the crowd.

The barrier lifted and the Merc rolled forward. It manoeuvred its way around the petal-strewn tank and the fighter, still heading for the exit. Maybe if I ran through one of the exhibition halls I could get to the head of the taxi line and intercept the wagon as it drove off-site. It picked up speed as the crowd thinned. Fuck it, I was going to lose him. I fired off about six or seven shots of the rear of the Merc. I’d learn the plate script.

But Altun wasn’t leaving after all. The driver turned down an alley to the side of the conference hall, the entrance to which was blocked by an armed sentry.

The two BG stepped out of the car and did their job, covering their principal against a shoot from both ends of the alley.

He darted into the building.

I ran across the road and muscled my way to the front of the crowd surging through the large glass doors.

A cordon of men clutching AKs to their chests directed us towards a huge staircase that curved up to the first floor. As I climbed, I spotted some of the journalists who’d been in the press centre and slipped in behind them. A Brit and a French guy were speculating on trade-fair gossip. I overtook them at the entrance to the conference room. There was another logjam. A phalanx of flustered media-relations people, some Iranian, some Russian, staffed a table to the right of the door. A woman in a headscarf was signing journalists in. The lad with the badges on his hat argued the toss with her in German. I could just hear her above the din. We all had to hand in our cameras. ‘The Ministry of Information will provide the pictures.’ She took his and gave him a numbered ticket.

Fair one. The Afghan warlord, Ahmad Shah Masood, had been assassinated two days before 9/11 by Al-Qaeda posing as journalists. They’d detonated a bomb rigged inside their TV camera.

More journalists milled around us and had a good honk. I was too busy deleting the Merc’s registration-plate pictures. I had to. If they had any sense they would check the cameras while they had the chance, and half a dozen hits of a VIP number-plate wouldn’t be good for business.

An extended hand almost hit my face. ‘Aha, James Manley,
ADTM
. We meet at last!’ The Brit I’d passed on the stairs looked up from my badge and we shook. ‘I’ve been reading your stuff for years. Some of us thought you didn’t exist, dear boy.’

I managed my best smile as the pissed-off German disappeared inside without his big lens.

He kept on shaking. ‘Collier.
Military Systems and Components Quarterly
.’ In his other hand, he was clutching a pipe.

This wasn’t the time for pleasantries. ‘Collier,’ I said. ‘Fuck off.’

He stood there trying to work out if he’d heard me right.

The woman was asking me to open my day-sack. She removed the Nikon and gave me a ticket. ‘If you have a mobile phone, Mr Manley, you need to keep it switched off while you are in the conference room. If you do not, it will be taken from you. You can collect your camera from here when the conference is concluded.’ She gave me a badge and waved me on.

58

The conference hall was built like a theatre. There were banked seats – around two hundred of them – leading down to a stage. Whole blocks near the front were filled with Iranians, all with the same red badges. The front row itself had been reserved.

The noise was deafening. Near the front, photographers jostled each other for a good view. The stage was bare except for a long table covered with a bright red cloth. Ten matching red chairs were ranged behind it. On the table there were two jugs of water, a glass for each seat, and three evenly spaced microphones. To keep the theme going, a single vase of flowers sat in the centre of the table.

Name-plates were arranged in front of each chair, but I was too far away to read them.

The only clue to the imminent announcement was a PowerPoint slide that erupted on a screen behind the table:
Towards A New Era of Space Collaboration
. It looked like
Military Systems
and his French mate had been right.

I flipped down one of the seats near the back and played about with my boot, trying to extract the mobile without looking like I was drawing a weapon. I got up again and made my way to the aisle, then down towards the mêlée of photographers. ‘’Scuse me, coming through, sorry, ’scuse me . . .’

The lights went down, leaving just the stage illuminated.

59

The auditorium fell silent as White Turban walked onto the stage. All the red badges jumped up and stood to attention. They stayed on their feet while more dignitaries filed in. Some went on to the stage, others to the VIP seats.

Then came my possible. He took the furthest seat on the right, not far from an emergency exit. His size, face shape and nose were all familiar. One of his BG kept the exit clear. The other stood behind his left shoulder.

I had to get much closer to make a positive ID and take a decent picture. I elbowed my way down towards him. I felt a tap on my shoulder and breath in my ear. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ Majid whispered. He made it sound like an act of complete betrayal.

I turned to him as the waffle sparked up on stage. ‘Sorry, mate, I got lost trying to find you so I thought I’d just crack on.’

‘Please, James, do not get lost again. This will be a very important announcement. Something positive for you to write about. We listen now.’

Up at the table, White Turban leant closer to a microphone.

Majid nudged me. ‘This is Minister Kermanshahi, a very important man – a very powerful man.’

‘What’s he saying?’

‘One of my colleagues will provide a translation.’

On cue, someone at the end of the table started to interpret, first in Russian, then in English. The announcement concerned the teaming of Iran’s illustrious rocket industry with Russia’s foremost rocket-manufacturing company, M3C. Nobody was actually calling a spade a spade and mentioning the word ‘missile’. The purpose of the teaming arrangement between Shahid Hemmat and M3C, explained the interpreter, was to help establish Iran as a true presence in the commercial space launch business. Using its long-standing experience, M3C would help Iran adapt its existing two-stage rockets to launch micro-satellites into space. At this point, there was a loud ripple of applause from the red-badge brigade. White Turban subdued them with a wave of his hand.

The presentations from the stage went on for the best part of an hour. My eyes never left my target. I was just too far away for a picture, and with Majid at my elbow I had no chance anyway. That didn’t matter just now. What did was that I’d found him. His eyes confirmed it.

The interpreter announced that the formalities were over, but the minister would be happy to take some questions.

Altun turned in his seat and gestured towards the emergency exit. The BG stepped forward. As the lights came on for questions he bent down to take his instructions. On the back of his neck a tattoo linked his collar to his hairline. I couldn’t see the pattern. I didn’t need to.

Altun moved swiftly to the emergency exit with Tattoo and the other BG.

I started to get up. I’d catch them outside.

A hand grabbed me.

‘I’m sorry, Majid, I need the toilet.’

‘No, James, we have to wait until the important men leave. It is very impolite. You must stay.’

A woman’s voice, clear, loud and confident, fired the first question. Her accent was Russian. ‘Minister Kermanshahi . . . I would like you to tell us about the military implications of this deal . . .’

It was Agnetha from the press centre.

Kermanshahi looked like he’d been hit by a tank round. He raised his eyes, shielding them against the lights that shone down on the stage.

Everybody turned to look at her, including Altun and Tattoo.

On the stage, the interpreter whispered something into Kermanshahi’s ear. His face tightened with anger. The interpreter picked up the microphone. ‘There are no military implications. Now, if you please—’

‘In particular, Minister Kermanshahi, I would like you to explain why Iran is acting as a broker in the supply of weapons built by M3C to—’

There was a howl of indignation from the red badges but my eyes were on the emergency exit. It was closed. Altun had disappeared.

‘Sorry, mate, got to go.’

I jumped out of my seat and ran up the steps. Majid called my name, but I wasn’t stopping for anyone.

As I reached the back of the auditorium, I collided with Agnetha. Two plain-clothes security men were dragging her out, kicking and shouting. I pushed back at her. ‘Out the fucking way.’

The security men stumbled back a pace, and I was gone.

60

I burst outside and raced around to the alleyway.

The gate was padlocked and the sentry had gone.

No time to stop and think. I had two known locations for him. Locations where I knew he’d been.

The first was M3C’s chalet.

I ran back to the avenue. My throat was dry and sore as I pushed through the crowds. Sweat streamed down my face and stuck my shirt to my back under the day-sack.

I looked right. No Merc.

Gulping air, I showed my press pass to the heavies at the M3C door and told the girl I was there to interview Paul (not Pavel), the media guy.

She was ice-cold, unsmiling. ‘Everyone has gone for all day. You are Mr . . .?’

But I was already running again, back towards the auditorium. What now? Back to Majid to get a bollocking for not being able to control my bladder, and lose the target? Or just fuck him off and keep looking?

It was an easy choice. The target was more important than Majid’s annual report.

The second known location was the Falcon, and I’d need the Nikon if I was going to do my bit for Julian.