Exit wound

I headed out of the car park, my day-sack on my back. I broke into a jog to get out of the light and make some distance. Being alone had never been a big deal for me. It was simpler than surrounding yourself with people the whole time, and I’d sometimes confused it with a kind of freedom. But I’d have given almost anything just then to have Lord Dex of Cards and his Hallowe’en torch beside me, and to be able to take the piss out of Lord Ken of t’Pit for firing up his thousandth roll-up of the day.

This might be a crusade for Agnetha, but it was a whole lot more than that for me. I reckoned I’d already discovered enough to keep Julian happy for a day or two. I’d done what I’d been asked to do. Now I was going to find Altun and his mates again. And then I was going to kill them.

It wouldn’t stop any missile deal; it might not even delay it. It wouldn’t get the Taliban flapping or make the world start smelling of flowers. But it would make me feel a fucking sight better.

88

I was pumping the Timberlands as fast as I could, but the Air France 747 overtook me with ease as it taxied down to the bottom of the strip about two hundred to my left and prepared for take-off.

I’d kept on the Imam Khomeini International Airport approach road so that I could move faster. I was soaked with sweat, but my head was clear. The M3C terminal was on the far side of the complex. Behind me, a never-ending stream of traffic roared along the main.

The 747 lumbered down the runway and climbed into the air. I turned off the tarmac and stumbled across a stretch of rubble-strewn sand, keeping out of the stark white light that separated the airport from the desert.

I picked my way past a spaghetti junction of rusty metal pipes and interconnecting valves that were due to bring water into or take waste out of IKIA at some point in Majid’s glorious future. A single-track road curved around the edge of the airfield. I turned onto it and speeded up again. My throat was dry. My hair was plastered against my face. The day-sack pounded my back with every step. I felt like a squaddie again, on a tab. Switch off, head down and make distance. It’s what you do once you’re there that counts, so get there fast.

Two more airliners took off as earthworks, bulldozers and heavy plant sprang up around me. Three hundred metres of concrete and wasteground separated me from the perimeter fence as I skirted the end of the runway.

I stopped and got out Ali’s binos as another jet taxied down towards me. Either there wasn’t a night-flying ban in Iran, or nobody gave a shit. I focused for a moment on the taxiing jet. A line of passengers settled into their window seats and reached for their safety instructions or gazed in silent wonder at the monument to the ’79 revolution. Then I panned right until I found the M3C hangar in the semi-darkness opposite. It was around two hundred metres away.

The Dassault was on the pan. No lights, no generator on the go. But there was a dull glow from the centre of the building. I scanned the windows, but the blinds were down.

Still keeping to the shadows, I made my way round towards the turning circle outside the front entrance and raised the binos again. There was no visible security; no barriers, no checkpoints and no vehicles.

I could see a darkened reception area, accessible via big glass front doors. The building straddled the perimeter fence. The only way to get airside was to go through it.

I cut across the wasteground, past a seemingly random scattering of abandoned concrete sewage pipes, sections of rusted fencing and deep caterpillar tracks. I needed a good OP, close enough to see anyone who arrived; close enough to grip them before they had any time to react.

I slowed. I didn’t have to gulp great lungfuls of air any more, but the sweat started to pour big-time now I was cooling down. I hated this bit. Every stitch of my clothing was starting to stick to me. I knew the sand would, too, once I’d found somewhere to hide up.

I was about a hundred away from the M3C set-up. It was as close as I could go. There was no cover from here on in. I crawled into one of the sewage-pipe sections to sort myself out.

I eased off the day-sack and leant my wet back against the concrete. All sorts of grit and giant spider’s webs immediately found their way down my neck and into my shirt. I took a couple of deep breaths and hoped my body heat would dry everything off before dawn.

Using the ambient light from the main terminal, flashing tower beacons and yet another aircraft taxiing down the runway, I got out the mobile and powered it up. It was just after 0300.