Exit wound

But then I saw something glint on the roof of the multi-storey ahead of us. Somebody was up there with a pair of binoculars. I shook my head. ‘Nah, I’ll wait here.’

The driver shrugged, giving me the universal sign for whatever, and drove off.

I slung my day-sack onto my back and headed for the multi-storey. The sun burnt my face and I had to squint. A gust of wind blew in from the airfield, bringing with it the smell of jet fuel. I was dripping with sweat and my shirt was soaked.

It was a lot cooler in the stairwell – and, like the rest of the airport, the multi-storey was over-specified and under-used. Only one in ten parking spaces on the ground floor of this polished concrete building were occupied.

I began climbing the stairs. The sound of my footsteps was drowned by the roar of another aircraft taking off. The smell of aviation fuel was rapidly replaced by the stink of urine from a men’s toilet on the second floor. Busy or not, car parks are the same the world over.

The stairs finally led to a door on the fifth level. I waited for the sound of the aircraft to recede, then put my ear against it. I heard the murmur of young voices on the other side. I turned the handle and pushed.

The roof level didn’t have a single car parked on it – at least, none that was visible from my viewpoint. Half a kilometre beyond a waist-high wall around the edge of the building, the metal-and-glass roof of the airport terminal shimmered in the heat. To the right of it, I could make out the control tower and a revolving radar dish.

I could also hear the male voices very clearly now.

I stepped out onto the roof and closed the door behind me. Pressing my back against the wall of the stairwell, I stuck my head slowly around the corner.

There were three of them leaning on the wall, their backs to me. One was pointing across the airfield. Another was listening to a radio. The third guy was using a pair of binoculars to track whatever the first lad was pointing at. They were dressed in jeans, T-shirts and, despite the heat, thin windcheaters from the Ahmadinejad spring collection.

What I’d taken yesterday to be a military-style hat on the head of the guy with the binos, I now realized was nothing more than a baseball cap. He gobbed off excitedly to his mates, giving a running commentary of what he could see.

I started towards them, a big smile on my face, one hand up in a wave and the other shielding my eyes. ‘Hello, any of you guys speak English?’

The one with the radio turned and stared dumbly, then nudged his two mates in the ribs.

63

Foreigners weren’t a common sight for these lads – even at what was supposed to pass for an international airport. The guy with the baseball cap was the only one who sparked up – he seemed generally more confident than his mates.

‘Hello, who are you?’ He spoke, of course, with a slight American accent. They were all around the same age; somewhere in their early twenties.

I told them the truth – well, sort of. I flashed my IranEx badge at them. ‘James Manley, British aerospace and defence journal – Aerospace and Defence Technology Monthly.’ They exchanged doubtful glances with each other until I handed over my business card.

The guy with the baseball cap studied it, then looked at me. ‘You work for ADTM?’

‘You know it?’

‘Sure.’ He took a step forward and shook my hand.

I missed the names of his mates, but I caught his loud and clear.

‘Ali.’

Under the peak were two very clear and excited brown eyes. He kept smiling, like he was waiting for something from me as he held onto my hand and kept shaking. ‘Iranianmetalbird.net, you know it, yes? That is why you are here?’

One of Ali’s mates, a beanpole around six-four, spoke to him in rapid-fire Farsi. He didn’t like me at all.

‘There a problem?’

‘He wants to know what a foreign-defence reporter is doing at IKIA – a civilian airport.’

‘Not entirely civilian.’ I pointed to the military-transport aircraft I’d seen alongside the northern perimeter fence when I landed. I could still see them there, way in the distance. As a piece of point-scoring, it wasn’t up to much but it bought me a few seconds. ‘I came here to find you.’

He took a step backwards. ‘Me?’

‘Your website. It’s pretty well known in defence publishing circles back home. My magazine has been meaning to approach you for a while. IranEx gave me the opportunity to look you up. I take it that you’d be happy, Ali, if we could agree the right terms, for us to reprint some of the pictures that you post on the web, maybe even write some articles for the magazine?’

Ali looked at his mates, then at me. ‘You are offering me a job?’

‘A contract, possibly. But let’s see how good you are.’ I gave him a smile. It wasn’t going to be much of a test. ‘An aircraft, white private jet, took off from here a short while ago. Do you know what make it was?’

I liked his enthusiasm a lot more than the scowling glances I got from his mates.

‘Sure. A Dassault Falcon 7X.’