Exit Wound (20 page)

70

I’d never been able to understand what made grown men stand at railway stations or airports writing down numbers – or play golf, come to that.

Ali’s bedroom shelves were lined with books, some in English. There were hefty volumes on engineering and reference books by the yard on all kinds of aircraft. Maybe this subject and this room were where he’d retreated when the trouble started at home.

Ali opened an antique desk. Inside was a laptop. He fired it up, snatching the odd glance at his father through the adjoining door as he waited for it to come online. I sat and got on with my glass of very sweet black tea. Through the open door, I had a good view of his dad. He was sleeping soundly now, as the fan battered his bedding once more.

Ali kept his voice low. ‘First, I need to log on to iranianmetalbird.net to see if there have been any unusual movements . . .’ He tapped some keys and his home page came up. He traced his finger across a table. ‘Both main airports, Jim – IKIA and Mehrabad. From this time column I can see which aircraft have landed and departed.’

‘In real time?’

‘Let me show you.’

He typed in further instructions and the screen changed. This time a digital map of the entire Gulf region appeared. Moving across it were hundreds of letters, numbers and what I’d always known as ‘tracks’ – dotted lines that charted an aircraft’s speed and heading.

I checked the time in the corner of the screen against my watch. Everything was happening live. ‘How do you get into data like this?’

He looked at me and smiled because he knew something Mr Manley didn’t. ‘IKIA is my country’s pride and joy. The government bills it as a modern airport comparable with the best in the world – Singapore, Dubai, Denver . . . It’s not, of course, but one of the things they upgraded at the time they built the airport was an air-traffic reporting centre for the Tehran region and, unlike the airport itself, it’s pretty good.’

‘You hack into the air-traffic-control computer?’

Ali was now in full-on geek mode. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. A commercial aircraft, as I’m sure you know, Jim, will transmit a constant stream of data to centres like these – where it is, where it’s heading, lots of different information. The data is transmitted essentially in the form of an email. The emails are encoded into radio signals, and if you have a good scanner, you can intercept and receive those signals.’

His smile turned into a big grin. ‘A member of our group has a scanner linked to his laptop and some decoding software that allows him to see the position and heading of any aircraft in the region. What you are looking at is the result. We post it on a secure site to which a handful of us have access. In any other country, this wouldn’t be illegal – in fact, the scanner and the software are standard equipment for spotters in most parts of the world. But this, my friend, is Iran. We have to exercise some care . . .’

He hit some more keys and the screen changed. I checked the digital clock. This time, we were looking at a representation of the air-traffic picture as seen by a controller at the Tehran reporting centre a little after five o’clock local time – pretty much the moment at which the Falcon climbed away towards the mountains.

Ali peered at the screen. ‘Now, let’s see . . .’ He used the tip of a biro to point at a dot that was slowly tracking away from Tehran.

I got into geek mode too. ‘That’s our bird?’

He nodded.

‘What can you tell me about it?’

He hit the keys again and a small panel appeared next to the slowly tracking dot. ‘This tells me almost everything I need to know. Type of aircraft: Dassault Falcon 7X. Fuel status: full. Destination: Quetta, Pakistan . . .’

‘Does it give a passenger manifest?’

‘It flew out empty. There were no passengers.’

I looked at him to check he wasn’t taking the piss. ‘You’re sure no one was on board?’

He was busy on the keyboard. ‘Sure, the catering company only delivered meals for the pilots.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘See? It says so right there. Two different menus in case one man gets food poisoning. Just two sets of meals, Jim. It’s going to Quetta empty. Maybe to pick someone up or something. Who knows?’

‘Are you able to track back?’

He gave another of his little smiles. ‘You mean, review the historical air-traffic picture? Sure. How far do you want to go?’

‘I’d like to know the aircraft’s status when it first flew into IKIA.’

‘Two days ago, correct?’

I nodded.

Ali started to type. A few seconds later, the screen changed. He leant forward, said something under his breath, and rekeyed the data.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. You don’t often see this . . .’

‘See what?’

‘The aircraft did not file a flight plan. Do you know where it flew in from?’

‘The UAE.’

He flicked open a notepad and leafed through. When he found the page he needed he ran his finger down a set of letters and numbers next to the margin.

‘What are those?’

‘Registration numbers.’ He flicked to another page and typed in some more data. He leant forward. ‘Ah, OK . . .’

‘What?’

‘I made the mistake of thinking that this is a commercially owned aircraft. It isn’t.’

‘No, it’s an RF registration. It’s almost a military aircraft.’

He pointed to the dots and tracks criss-crossing the Persian Gulf, before picking one of them out with the tip of his biro and following it – a track heading north out of Dubai.

‘The software “sees” all commercial air traffic along with all the details of a particular flight. Take this one, for example. From the data on the screen I know that it’s an Emirates flight out of Dubai, that its registration number is A6-ZDA, that it’s
en route
to London and that it’s at fifteen thousand feet and climbing.’ He then pointed to some untagged dots within Iranian airspace. ‘You see these? These are all uncorrelated tracks. The system registers their
presence
– it has to know where they are for it to operate safely – but the tracks themselves carry little if any data. Some do not even carry call-signs.’

‘And those are military flights?’

‘Yes. The Falcon effectively fell into this category when it flew out of UAE two days ago, but reverted to a civilian mode of operation inside Iran. That is very odd. They must have been keen to hide something.’

He geeked about the screen a bit more. ‘Would you like to see the photographs?’

I couldn’t help sitting upright.

‘I told you, Jim. Nothing flies in and out of the country that we don’t know about. We had never seen a Falcon 7X before. It is a very rare bird. When it was on the ground we photographed it from every angle we could.’

‘Yeah, OK, then. Let’s have a look. Why weren’t they on your website?’

‘I have to work, Jim. I haven’t had time to unload.’

I didn’t want to sound too full-on about it. ‘If they’re any good, I’ll buy them right now.’

71

‘Even though it’s a big jet, the Falcon has a short take-off and landing capability.’ He scrolled down a list of files. ‘It was one of the few large corporate aircraft to have been cleared for service at London City – as you know, Jim, an airport that’s renowned for stringent regulations governing the aircraft that use it.’

I nodded. If you needed STOL capability to get you in and out of London City, the airstrip RV would have been a piece of piss. That was why it had been used. It could carry the weight, get in and out, and didn’t look military.

He opened a file and up came hundreds of aircraft thumbnails. ‘Found them.’

The first few were of the Falcon coming in, nose high, flaps dangling, over the perimeter fence at IKIA just hours after Red Ken and Dex got dropped. I wondered if their bodies were on board, or whether they’d been burnt or cut up and fed to animals – anything to ensure they’d never be seen again. There was a good picture of the Falcon as it hit the tarmac – you could see little puffs of white smoke coming up from the wheels. There were several of it taxiing and many more of it parked up in front of M3C’s very own terminal, the building tucked away on the far side of the airport.

We were getting closer to what I hoped was going to be gravy time. With his long lens, Ali had snapped several clear pictures of the aircraft’s passengers as they disembarked. First off was Tattoo, still wearing the clothes he’d had on when he’d dropped Dex: short-sleeved blue shirt, tail hanging out over jeans. One snap had him putting his sun-gigs on, exposing his ink-covered arms.

And then, in the next shot, there was my target: standing at the top of the air-stairs, sniffing the breeze. The picture was an improvement on the black-and-white, but not by much.

‘You know who any of these people are?’

‘Just M3C people, I suppose.’

There was another shot of Altun as he made his way down the steps and then, finally, the money shot: staring out over the airport, his face turned to the camera, almost as if he was posing, one hand smoothing back hair that had been ruffled by the wind . . .

‘Ali, they’re excellent. The magazine will love them.’

‘Really? You are sure these are good enough for you?’ He was a happy man.

‘More than sure, Ali. I’ll take all of them. I’m sure my editor would agree for me to pay, say, a thousand dollars.’ I didn’t want to fuck about. That would have been more than he made in a couple of months behind the wheel of the Paykan. And the three of them could do with it. I would have liked to give them more, but I still had a job to do and no idea what it would end up costing.

‘I have more!’ His fingers darted across the keyboard.

I found myself staring at several good clear shots of a forklift truck offloading the wooden crates. The second loadie from the airstrip was in charge. There was nothing that looked like a couple of freshly wrapped bodies.

72

I needed to get them out of my possession and into Julian’s as fast as I could. Majid would be going ape and I might find myself hung upside down and searched with rubber gloves.

I couldn’t send them from Ali’s apartment: Vevak would pick it up. I didn’t want this rebounding on him or his family.

There were internet cafés, of course, but they were definitely monitored.

There was the press-centre at IranEx. In among the images of boring take-offs and landings, people standing next to an undercarriage wheel and all that shit, my editor would be getting the Falcon, the gold and the faces that accompanied it. By the time Vevak cottoned on to what I’d sent – if they ever did – I would be away from IranEx and hiding in the city, trying to find Altun and the loadies. With the Falcon now in Pakistan, I only had one known location for Altun and that was IranEx. There were two more days of the exhibition, so that was where I’d wait. I still had more to do for Julian, then for Red Ken and Dex.

I checked my watch. It was already past midnight. Majid would have staked out the room after searching it, and getting his lads to check for me in all the Western hotspots.

‘Ali, any chance of me staying the night? It’s a waste of time going back to the hotel now. And if you want a job in that taxi of yours, you could take me to IranEx in the morning and work with me for the next couple of days. I’ll pay you another five hundred.’

His eyes lit up. ‘It would be a pleasure. What time do you need to be there?’

‘Soon as it opens.’

73

We ate dinner cross-legged on the carpet – a meal that Aisha had prepared that was a cross between soup, and potato, tomato, chickpea and mutton stew. She was a busy girl. As well as looking after these two she was a medical student at the university, and had joined Mousavi’s green movement for reform. She had the wristband to prove it.

Ali was munching away like a good ’un, his pockets stuffed with the wad of oners I’d just given him.

Aisha, however, didn’t seem too pleased to have the extra income in the house. She was almost ignoring me. Ali was either too blind to see it or chose not to notice.

Every so often one of them would get up to check on their dad, but the Naloxone had worked its magic and he was no longer in any danger. It wasn’t the first time he’d overdosed, Ali said. He’d done it so many times, in fact, that when their mother left and they were just kids, they had become experts on what to do. Some days, the two of them would come home to their dad crying in a corner of the bathroom, clutching his knees, shaking with fear – or just throwing a wobbler and smashing the place up.

‘Have you two heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?’

They looked at each other for any recognition.

‘It’s an illness that some people can develop after having experienced one or more traumatic events – like fighting a war, like getting blown up, like seeing fourteen-year-old boys being blown to bits beside you. It affects some people hard. There’s no telling who. Maybe your dad . . .’

Aisha acknowledged me at last. Well, sort of. At least she was listening.

‘Guys with PTSD can have problems with alcohol and drugs. Sometimes they can’t communicate with family and can get violent against them.’

They both stopped eating and listened. ‘Does he have nightmares – you know, shout out in his sleep?’

Aisha stifled a sob, which I took as a yes. ‘It’s OK, he can be helped. Your dad needs treatment.’

Ali comforted her as she cried into his shoulder. I tried to lighten it up a bit. ‘Even the great Satan has a general who suffers from it because of his time in Iraq. Can you imagine that?’

Aisha pulled herself off Ali, her hair now pasted to her face. ‘How do we help him? What does the American general’s family do?’

It was a tough one. I wasn’t sure Iran was known for its mental-health record. ‘He needs to see someone who can treat psychiatric conditions, someone who understands what he’s going through and knows how to help. Tell them you think he may have PTSD – look it up online. He doesn’t have to be like this.’

74

Wednesday, 6 May
0555 hrs

The muezzin had sounded like he was right outside my window when he started calling the faithful to prayer half an hour ago. I’d spent the night on the floor in Ali’s room. I didn’t get much sleep. His dad woke me several times as he cried into his sheets. Aisha had plodded past our door to tend him.

Ali was in the kitchen. Incredibly, he looked as bright as a button. Maybe it was the thought of going to Air Geek City. ‘Would you like something to eat, Jim?’ He was tucking into a pitta-bread sandwich that had bits of salad hanging out of it.

I nodded away and looked for a kettle or teapot. Ali got the idea. ‘
Chay
? Or
ghahve
?’

‘
Ghahve
would be great.’

Ali poured some into a cup while I threw some goat’s cheese and lettuce into some bread.

Aisha walked in. She had never got out of her jeans and Bono T-shirt, and her hair didn’t look so perfect after her intensive-care night-shift. She acknowledged me with a nod, then spoke to Ali in Farsi as she poured herself a coffee as well.

Ali picked up another cup and followed suit. ‘I will go and check on Father.’

When he’d left the room, she placed the fifteen hundred dollars on the table in front of me. I gave my full attention to the remains of my sandwich. ‘Mr Manley – thank you, but we do not need charity.’

‘It’s payment for your brother’s pictures and the time I’ve spent with him. He drove me from the airport and he’s driving me for the next two days. Thinking about it, maybe it isn’t enough.’

She cupped her mug with both hands and brought it up to hide her smile. She slowly shook her head. ‘You know it is a small fortune. And now I am embarrassed.’ She took a sip then pulled a pack of Camel from her pocket. She offered me one.

My turn to shake my head. ‘The money is yours. He’s earned it.’

I pushed the notes back at her but she focused on lighting her cigarette. She took the smoke down deep. ‘Thank you for explaining about my father. I have been online most of the night. I think I have found someone who understands these things, a doctor at the university.’

‘That’s great, Aisha. I’m sure everything will work out.’ There must have been millions here suffering after that war. No wonder the place had become Heroin Central.

Aisha sank into one of the three knackered wooden chairs, her cigarette held high so I didn’t get a face full of it as I sat down opposite her. I watched her as I sipped my coffee, so sweet it was almost sticky. There was a lot more going on in that head of hers.

‘Ali . . .’ She finally broke the silence. ‘He is a dreamer. He always has been. He idolizes his father. They have a special bond. Ali does not think about himself, so I have to, Mr Manley. You know, if he could ask for any job, any job in the world, it would be yours. Do you really think you will be able to get him work from your magazine?’

I hated this part of the job when it involved real people. But it had to be done. I still needed Ali. ‘I can’t promise anything. I have to talk to my editor. But, yes, of course. I think he’d be excellent.’

‘I understand, but please do that, Mr Manley. And maybe ask him if Ali could come to England and work. That would be good, wouldn’t it?’

‘But what about you and your dad?’

She blew another cloud of smoke into the air and showed me her wrist. ‘Do you know what this means?’

I nodded.

‘I will work with the party to bring reform to our country, Mr Manley, our green movement, our green revolution. Looking after my father will be easy compared to looking after my country. Ahmadinejad will win no matter how many votes he gets, and that means there will be blood on the streets after the election.’

She took another drag and picked some tobacco from her lips. She spent more time than was necessary removing it from her fingertip.

‘We students, the young, we need to show our people that we can change, but still be a Muslim country. I do not know if our green revolution will end like the Berlin Wall coming down, or with a slaughter like Tiananmen Square.’

She drank and then smoked, her eyes burning into mine so I understood the seriousness of what she was saying.

‘But it is a struggle that I do not want Ali to be part of. He deserves better. I am going to make sure he gets it.’

Ali was coming back down the corridor.

As if I didn’t feel enough of an arsehole already, she pushed the money back at me. ‘Here is his airfare. Please, look after him, won’t you?’

He reappeared with an empty cup and a big smile as I shoved the notes into my pocket.

‘We should leave now, Jim.’

‘Can you get me a mobile in the market? You know, just a cheap pay-as-you-go?’