Exit wound

As she manoeuvred past us and sat down under the TV, it was like having Cinza walk by at the funeral. The Red Sea parted. I studied her face. And why not? Every other man in the room was. The high cheekbones gave her away. She was Ukrainian or Russian; eastern European, for sure.

The bit of me that wasn’t tracking her and listening to Majid was trying to work out how I could access the chalet line that Kettle had told me about – the VIP area where the execs hung out away from prying eyes; the place where the real deals were done and maybe Altun would be. I needed to head over to M3C and get an invite.

‘Majid, I need to do a comparison of the missile system I’ve just seen with what the Russians are developing in the same field. Are M3C exhibiting here?’

Majid riffled through the show guide. ‘They are in Hall Two, at Stand Three E – next door, in fact, to the Shahid Hemmat Industrial Complex. You know this company, I suspect, James… Do you mind if I call you by this?’

‘No problem, mate.’ I knew I should have said James at the airport. Never mind, he was coming around.

Majid inclined his head in a mock-bow. ‘After you have visited the Russian stand, I can take you to see the director of Shahid Hemmat. You will like this company very much, James. It represents the very best of our Iranian technology. Doubtless you heard of the rocket that Iran put into orbit last year? The company that built it was Shahid Hemmat. You will be able to give your editor a real exclusive, believe me.’

You had to hand it to him. When his days in the Revolutionary Guard ended, he could always become a salesman for Iran plc.

54

In the middle of the M3C stand was the SA-16M, the missile that Kettle had asked me to look out for. It was spotlit from above and the placard beneath it was printed in Farsi, Russian and English. A number of salesmen in mega-smart suits tried to get eye-to-eye as Majid and I studied the latest addition to their company’s product range. I wondered how much of a discount they offered for gold.

For once, Majid was out of his depth. M3C wasn’t Iranian and he had no authority here. What he really wanted to do was to haul me next door, so I could big it up with the guys who’d pitched Iran into the ballistic-missile club – or, as he put it, ‘The peaceful pursuit of the commercial space business.’

The Russian stand was among the biggest and slickest at the show. Behind the weapons and the display boards, there was a reception area staffed by two heavily made-up girls with orange electric-beach tans, their heads covered with red scarves. Their eyelashes fluttered like electrocuted daddy long-legs. Just beyond them was a row of office windows. Shadows moved behind half-closed blinds. A squat Russian with a shaved head came out and barked at the salesmen, then disappeared.

I stepped up onto the stand and approached one of the mega-suits. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘Leetle…’

‘Jim Manley, ADTM.’ I handed over one of my business cards.

One of the other suits stepped forward. He’d gone to the trouble of Anglicizing the name on his card. It read: ‘Paul (not Pavel) Sergeyev, Media Relations’. Great, the company spin-doctor.

‘Hello, how can I help you?’

I explained who I was and what I was after. The mega-suit and Paul (not Pavel) went into a huddle with one of the girls who began hitting her keyboard.

I turned to see Majid deep in discussion with a little guy in a white turban and brown robe at Rockets R Us across the way. He must have been warming him up for me.

Paul (not Pavel) reappeared by my side. ‘Mr Manley, please forgive me for taking so long with my colleague. We just wished to check your magazine. Of course.’

His flawless English carried a hint of an American accent. ‘Now, please let me show you our wonderful SA-16M.’ He pointed towards the missile with an open hand, like a game-show host introducing tonight’s star prize.

55

I followed Paul (not Pavel) the few steps to the missile. ‘Mr Manley. Your magazine, it’s a good publication. I have just seen that we have our people translate it for our technical staff.’ He smiled. ‘They learn much from it. What do you need to know about the SA-16M?’

‘You could start, I guess, by telling me something about its status. Is it in production yet?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s in production.’

‘And what’s so special about it? The SA-16 has been around for years.’

He nodded. ‘It remains a favourite with our customers.’

I didn’t remind him that a whole load of those customers were terrorists. ‘So, talk me through it.’