The Corporal's Wife (2013) (29 page)

And tortured.

Few could resist the torture. She would name him.

They would come then, men he had worked with, laughed with, and with whom he had done the long stake-outs when they hunted for the Zionist-paid spies. They would break down the door. His wife would hold his child tightly to her, and would hear that he was the lover of a traitor. Kourosh squirmed. She would be disgraced.

But he held open the wallet. The photograph was in a hidden pouch but it was close to him, with him.

The rain had stopped, but it was cold – the heating was off.

He weighed his options. He was entangled, knew the consequences, and was bereft of the optimism an ignorant man might have clutched. The mobile rang in his pocket. A text message lit the screen. He had to return to the barracks.

The technicians reported a spike in traffic. The analysts burrowed into the messages, in clear and coded. Work, for them, could be dull, but there were moments – rare – when the roof of the world seemed to have been lifted. To
Manhunt
and
dragnet
, a new pearl could be added.

Reported location is Route 2, 51 kilometres NW Mianeh – approx midway between Torkaman and Siah Chaman. Reported incident is relevant to earlier announced maximum alert for female fugitive. Vehicle believed involved in escape, and used by foreign hostile agencies, identified by helicopter and tracked until accurate shooting from vehicle destroyed searchlight. Action taken: road block in place. Other traffic is confused. High chaos among internal security organisations.

The analysts’ views floated to screens.

Mehrak heard them. He was in his room. Anneliese had made him a mug of hot chocolate and he had brought it upstairs. He had been half dressed when he had heard PK and Sidney walking up the hill, along the lane, and into the back of the house. Mehrak thought that PK had set the pace, but the older man had not wished to be classified as slow. Loud voices. Mehrak, of course, was nominally without experience of men under the influence of alcohol. He didn’t drink, but many did. The irony of central Tehran was that getting hold of alcohol was no harder than obtaining heroin. Did the brigadier drink? There had been mornings, in the Mercedes, when he had sucked peppermints continuously. He knew that when men drank, their voices became louder.

Mehrak was at his door, Auntie with him.

He heard PK – he might have been with Father William, or Nobby, say, ‘Get the communications hotted up. The text said it was crisis time. Fuck-up on a grand scale, is what that means.’

Mehrak was put into his room. He heard the key turn. The lock clicked.

Footsteps came up the stairs. The door along the corridor opened.

Mehrak heard PK call, ‘Coffee, someone be an angel – black.’

Then it was quiet. Then he heard voices, too indistinct for him to understand what was said. He sat on the end of the bed, bent and untied his shoe laces. He had been good that day and had tried to co-operate. His mood oscillated, but that afternoon he had been more buoyant: they had covered corruption, import and export of textiles, electrical goods, fuel, names, anything that had been talked about in the Mercedes while he, unnoticed, drove. They were bringing her out. She would be alone, far from anything she knew. He believed in a new beginning. They would be together. It was
crisis time
and there had been a
fuck-up on a grand scale
. He knew how it was in north Tehran, in one of the favoured streets of regime officials, and where the academics who worked on the horizons of research lived, on those mornings when the pieces of a car littered the street, parts lodged in the trees, with legs, arms and clothing. He knew how it was in those same streets when a body lay half on the pavement and half in the gutter and, other than a bullet hole in the head, the face was unmarked, exceptional only for the shock, disbelief it expressed. The targets were men who should have been protected. Sometimes bodyguards were dead with their principals. His brigadier would have said, in the company of senior men, that this was
crisis time
, and when they had left the scene of an atrocity, his brigadier, in the car, would have spoken of a
fuck-up on a grand scale
.

He kicked off his shoes. One flew towards the window and the other came to rest in the corner by the pipes that carried the hot water for the heating system. He went to pick it up. His ear was beside the pipe.

Mehrak listened.

He heard PK explain
crisis time
, and fill in the detail of the
fuck-up on a grand scale
. He heard about a helicopter being fired on, a vehicle hammering along a road to the north and a road block being set in position. He knew that road, could almost have described the stretch that PK was talking about. It wound between low hills and was new, with a good surface. Hope died.

‘Mixed feelings, Tad.’

‘Yes, Director.’

‘On the one hand, I like to be told, kept abreast.’

‘I thought you might have wanted an updated briefing.’

‘On the other, the joy of being ignorant.’

‘Glad I caught you before bed.’

They were fighting cocks, dancing around each other. The pit was the director’s grace-and-favour flat, a quality Westminster address. Tadeuz Fenton had caught him half dressed, on the way to bed, and the door was closed, which meant the wife was in residence. Whisky wasn’t offered. Tadeuz Fenton, clever man and ladder-climber, had briefed the director on Petroc Kenning’s brothel-trap concept, and they’d shared a chortle. The money had been authorised, and a vaguer message sent, via a handwritten memorandum, suggesting that the wretch caught in the trap would be an altogether better source should his wife find it possible to leave the Islamic Republic. Detail had been sparse. An approach by a language student, yes, a driver to be found, no problem . . . Less about firearms and the bare mention of the risk in a combat role for anyone at the sharp end. The director, a politician of the trade but perhaps not as honed in skills as his Iran Desk chief, would have preferred to hide behind ‘Nobody told me,’ but they were adults, and recrimination would follow failure.

‘Not the end of the world, Tad.’

‘Not yet, Director.’

‘The boys you put in there, they’re unlikely to throw in the towel?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You’re expecting them to hit a block?’

‘In their predicament, I anticipate they’ll attempt to divert round it. Avoid the consequences of further confrontation. A few rounds at a helicopter will have proved chastening.’

‘They’re good men?’

‘They’re what I could get in the time I had available.’

He had his director at a disadvantage. Tadeuz Fenton had changed into a clean shirt before coming. His director’s shirt was unbuttoned, showing his chest.

‘Tell me – because we face difficult hours ahead – what’s the reward?’

He had a winning smile. It exuded confidence. A glass was ever nearly full, never close to empty. It was an attribute that had served him well.

‘We get to eat at the top table. You’ve had those days in Washington, Director, as have I, when you’ve been made to feel little more than a piece of cargo. On those days, with us, they go through the motions – and Jerusalem does it with even less courtesy. On this, I’ve them both eating out of the palm of my hand. A little good luck – neither of them has recruited a person of value in the last few months. Successful hits, but no one on the other side of a table answering specific questions. We have first-hand recent detail. He’s an important defector. He’s providing material that can be used for psywar black stuff, for the removal of talented scientists, chemists and engineers. If, Heaven forbid, a major assault had to be launched then this little man will have answered questions on security, defences and missile procedures. You see, Director, he’s been everywhere, has seen everything. Give him his wife and I’m confident he’ll go cheerfully into the very recesses of his memory. He’s one of the best we’ve ever had.’

‘Thank you. High praise indeed. Could be a long day tomorrow.’

‘In my experience – not as great as yours, of course – things are seldom as dark as predicted. I’m grateful for your support.’

He pushed the chair back and eased himself upright. Time to allow his senior to go to bed. They were in the kitchen and the pans were in the sink. A wine bottle stood on the draining-board, only an inch left. He was probably only half awake, and tired, maybe a little tipsy, and he was without the young tyros who looked after him at Vauxhall Cross – they’d never have allowed a one-to-one at that hour of the night and would raise Cain in the morning. It was a good time to have found his man and kept him on board, and he thought his back was protected. It would be a long day, yes, and God alone knew what it would bring.

She broke the quiet in the back of the van. ‘What do they think will happen?’ Her hand brushed against his chin as she indicated whom she had meant: Wally, Ralph and Mikey.

‘That further on there’ll be a road block.’

‘And we talk our way through it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘They should hide. You talk as well as an Iranian, and with me beside you, we’re man and wife.’ It was obvious to her. ‘We lie and we’ll deceive them.’

‘It won’t be like that.’

‘It has to be. A block is a block.’

He said quietly, trying to keep the quaver from his voice, ‘I think it’s their intention to go through the block.’

‘That’s impossible. Please?’

He tried to sound bold. ‘Through it, or round it.’

‘Why don’t we talk to them?’

‘The authorities have identified our vehicle. The helicopter followed us, had its light on us. That’s why he killed the light. It bought a little time. Very soon we’ll hit a block, and that’s why we’re driving without lights.’

No traffic came towards them. The guys understood: lorries, vans and cars were being held back behind the block. Zach realised it would be soon – but how soon? He didn’t know and didn’t ask. He doubted they knew. It was a lesson he’d learned from the site: faced with finding a solution to what appeared the impossible, questions helped no one. It was all right for her and him to talk, but
they
had the weapons ready and Ralph drove smoothly – Zach didn’t know how he managed to see the road. They had armed two of the machine pistols and some of the grenades. The windows were down in the cab, and the three guys now wore dark glasses. Zach had nothing to contribute, and knew it.

‘You do not have a job in this?’

‘No. I was here to get them into the city, talk to you and get out of the city. I have no training with weapons.’

‘You are not from the special services of Britain?’

‘No.’

‘You came to speak to me – and I told you I hated my husband. You persisted. I agreed to come. Why did you come?’

He hesitated. The darkness cloaked him and the only faint light came from the instrument panel in the cab. The quiet was broken only by the engine and the guys’ breathing. He murmured, close to her ear, ‘I was grateful to be asked.’

Chapter 10

No one Zach Becket knew could have told him that it was worth being on the Mianeh to Tabriz road with a girl who asked questions. That it was worth being with three men, carrying stated-the-art weapons and a trauma pack, a road block ahead.

It was past midnight, and the rain had stopped. A light cloud covered the moon and most of the stars were hidden. He thought, from what he’d seen through the back window of the van, that they had passed one isolated building, and further back there had been goats in the road. They were coming to the crest of a slow incline, and Ralph was changing down. The van shook as he went off the metalled surface and onto the hard shoulder.

She asked, ‘Is it a comfort stop?’

A hand came back and made a gesture, unmistakable, for total quiet. They were all hunched forward in the cab, peering into the darkness.

Her lips were against his ear: ‘Do I get to pee outside or do I just wait and . . . Or can I ask for a bucket?’

He felt she belonged to him, not to the three guys. He caught her upper arm and gripped it, trying to silence her. He failed.

‘You’re greatful you were asked. How grateful should I be? Would it have been better for me to stay?’

He was about to answer, but Mikey had turned. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold and hard. ‘Tell the lady, Zach, that she’s to shut up or she’ll lose some teeth. Get out the back. No noise.’

Zach repeated it into her ear. He found another truth: she was a ‘last-word woman’.

‘Should I have stayed?’

Mikey’s head was through the gap. ‘I’ll take half her face off. But first, what sort of wild animals do they have here? The big ones, threat to farmers’ stock. Ask her.’

He did. He shortened her answer, relayed its bones. There were wild boar, big cats, brown bears, wolves. She had a friend who had studied the cats – cheetah, lynx and panther — Mikey cut her off. There were wolves? She spat back: a homeless man living in a rough wood shelter in the north-east, a few years ago, had been mauled to death by a pack and the villagers had failed to drive them off. More recently, a woman had been attacked in her village, central Iran, had killed the starving beast and— He told her, again, to shut up.