Exit wound ns-12 Page 12

  Kettle had built up a picture of what the Iranians were up to in the SAM (surface-to-air missile) weapons arena, increasingly vital with the current threat of first strikes by the US and the Israelis against Iranian nuclear facilities. He would have been aware that his meticulously crafted briefing documents on Iranian air defences were required reading within the Firm and the Ministry of Defence, occasionally even landing on a minister’s desk. The IranEx trip would have been his reward – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity now the Iranians, eager for press coverage of their indigenous weapons industry, had decided to throw their doors open to the international media.

  Kettle’s cover had been prepared long ago. He’d be travelling as a writer for a defence publication called Aerospace and Defence Technology Monthly – ADTM to those in the trade. His alias: James Manley, ex-RAF, divorced, and trying to make it in the notoriously badly paid world of freelance defence journalism. His passport was ready. His visa was ready. For several years he’d submitted articles under his assumed name to the wholly innocent editor of ADTM.

  And at the moment he was all set to go – just as he was about to take the Labrador for a walk and pick up the Sundays – he’d had the phone call telling him to get into the office and brief someone who was going to fill his slot. After all that hard work he’d been mugged by some dickhead who didn’t know SAM from Samantha and didn’t even talk proper.

  Julian looked at his watch. ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other. We don’t have much time and you have quite a lot to talk about.’ He paused by the door. ‘Call me as soon as you’re through and be as quick as you can. There’s a lot more to do before tomorrow.’

  Kettle turned and gave me a look like I’d just run over his dog.

  43

  ‘Listen, mate.’

  There was nothing matey about his tone. The room temperature had dropped several degrees as soon as Julian closed the door. Fair one – in his shoes I’d have been pissed off too.

  ‘There’s nothing unusual about DIS posing as a freelance defence journalist. It happens all the time. The Russians know it happens. We know it happens. Bet you a penny to a pound, the Iranians know it happens, too. Defence exhibitions, no matter where they are, end up crawling with spooks. So, mate, whoever you are, at least you’ve got that going for you.’

  Kettle had known better than to ask my name and I hadn’t volunteered it. I still hadn’t shaken his hand. The only good things were that I no longer noticed the smell and he hadn’t offered me a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Right, so you want the one-oh-one on the fledgling Iranian missile industry so you can be James Manley, eh?’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘How long have we got?’

  I hated briefings. And I hated government buildings – especially dust-filled places like this one. They brought back too many bad memories of too many bollockings. Besides, I just needed enough to make my cover story sound like I knew what I was on about. I was there for something more important than geeking up. I couldn’t wait to get out.

  ‘No more than two hours.’

  Kettle went over to the filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He riffled through it, yanking out sheets of paper as he went. They turned out to be magazine articles.

  ‘Take them with you. Don’t worry, they’re all open-source – some recent pieces from Jane’s Defence Weekly and Aviation Week on the state of the Iranians’ air defences. You can bone up on it at your leisure, but here’s the short version. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing them as a bunch of no-hope, clueless Islamofascist rag-heads – they’re not. Since the Shah got deposed, they’ve built up an incredibly successful aerospace and defence industry. It’s in their blood. They’ve had to, given all the arms embargoes that have been imposed upon them over the years.’

  I glanced at the articles. From everything I’d read, the embargoes had proved about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. ‘They’ve been getting technical assistance from everyone on Baby Bush’s axis-of-evil list, haven’t they?’

  Kettle shut one drawer and opened another. ‘Plus some that aren’t even on the list yet. But then again, necessity is the mother of invention.’

  ‘So what invention shit have they been up to?’

  ‘No need for that.’ He clearly wasn’t a big fan of profanity. Maybe it was because it was Sunday. He threw some more homework my way. ‘Take their air-defence network. It’s a mish-mash of old Soviet stuff and missiles that the Americans abandoned when the Shah left in a hurry. The Iranians have watched and learnt. They’ve not only reverse-engineered spare parts but, where necessary, they’ve improved upon the actual hardware. For the past decade or two, this has been sufficient to ward off any threats they might face, but with the Israelis and the Americans back in sabre-rattling mode, they need something a little more effective. Which is where IranEx enters the equation. Or would have. For me, I mean.’

  Kettle gathered a few more articles into an envelope, scrawled ‘Russia’ across it, and chucked it onto his desk. ‘Technology transfer between Russia and Iran has been particularly active – albeit at a covert level. In 1998, UN sanctions were issued against a number of Russian organizations – state research facilities as well as companies – that had supplied technical expertise to Iran’s ballistic-missile effort. Not unnaturally, that’s where most of the world’s attention has been focused. After all, it’s the ballistic missiles that will carry the weapons of mass destruction, nuclear and otherwise, that threaten the West. But we know that Russian co-operation with the Iranian state weapons industry goes way beyond that.’

  I had a long night ahead of me. ‘What do you know about M3C?’

  ‘Moscow Missile Manufacturing Complex. They Anglicized it to M3C. Less of a mouthful on the international circuit, where they compete against the big boys from the US and Europe. M3C used to be three different Soviet-era weapons entities until somebody, somewhere, read a book on market economics and decided it was better to lump all Russia’s missile expertise under one roof, like every other country does.

  ‘M3C make everything from anti-tank missiles to space launch vehicles. The way they read the rules, there’s nothing wrong with lending assistance to the Iranians as long as it’s for defensive purposes or ends up in space. That’s not exactly how I’d interpret the rules of the Missile Technology Control Regime, but in Putin’s Russia, nobody much seems to care as long as it brings in the bacon – and, trust me, when it comes to hard cash, the Iranians have petro-dollars aplenty to splash about. Have you ever been to a defence exhibition?’

  I shook my head, although that wasn’t exactly true – I’d once been to the British Army Equipment Exhibition during my time in the Regiment, but I couldn’t be arsed to explain. I just wanted him to keep waffling.

  ‘There are a number of elements to any exhibition that are important to journalists. The first is the press centre. Every major defence exhibition has a place set aside for the media, a place the hacks can go to file their stories, meet up and grab a beer.’ He laughed. ‘Although that clearly won’t be an option in Iran.

  ‘The press centre will keep you informed as to whether there are any announcements that day and whether the major news conferences are due to be held in the dedicated conference centre or in one of the chalets of the exhibiting companies.’

  ‘Chalets?’ He made it sound like a ski resort.

  ‘An exhibition area is divided into exhibition space, usually in covered areas, where the companies show off their hardware, and chalet areas where their execs do all their hobnobbing.’

  ‘So what are the magic words to get you in?’

  ‘I’m sure Iranian Revolutionary Guards will be on hand to ensure that hacks don’t wander where they’re not supposed to. But in a Western defence exhibition – Farnborough or Paris or IDEX – they let accredited media into the chalet area. The big companies like to keep the press onside. I don’t know how it will be in Iran. You’ll just have to play it by ear.’

  He glanced at the R
ussian missile seeker that was now sitting on his desk like some bizarre executive toy.

  I followed his gaze. ‘You nick that?’

  Kettle smiled for the first time. ‘Let’s just say there’s a Russian exhibitions manager who’s probably still in the gulag, or wherever Russians keep their miscreants these days. Anybody could have nicked anything at that particular show – Farnborough ’ninety-two. It just happened to be me.’

  ‘I hope it was worth it.’

  ‘Certainly was. We hadn’t seen this particular variant of the seeker-head before. That’s why defence exhibitions are such good value.’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘I have no idea why you’re going in and it’s none of my business. I just hope thatit’s – as you say – worth it.’ He looked at the clock. We were out of time. I picked up the envelope and the other material he’d selected for me and headed for the door.

  ‘One other thing…’

  I turned to see him playing with the seeker-head.

  ‘The new SA-16M. Read about it in your notes. The missile’s seeker has some kind of fault. It’s important that we know what it is, and what they’re doing to correct it. That was my sole reason for going to IranEx. Any information you can find about the 16M is vitally important to DIS.’

  The moment I closed the door behind me I pictured him grabbing his Nick Stone voodoo doll from the filing cabinet and jabbing its bollocks with pins.

  44

  Monday, 4 May

  1039 hrs

  As the Galaxy people-carrier sped west along the A4 by the Chiswick flyover, I gazed out at the high-rise office construction projects stalled by the credit crunch and wondered how the skyline would look in Tehran.

  Julian had handed over all the supporting documentation I’d need – passport and business cards in the name of James Manley, a letter of commission from the editor of ADTM, a media visa from the Iranian embassy – and I’d been boning up all night on the country pack and more int on Altun. Sitting next to me, his eyes closed, Julian seemed to be doing some quiet reflection of his own.

  The traffic bunched on the Heathrow spur road. I reached down for Kettle’s envelope. I’d have a couple of hours at the airport and a good few more en route to Tehran, but I had a lifetime of plane-spotting to catch up on.

  I pulled out a clutch of papers marked ‘Technology’ in the squadron leader’s spidery handwriting. There was a note attached with a paperclip to some cuttings on an advanced handheld missile.

  Mate, Anything the Iranians are publishing on the SA-16M is of interest to us. Get whatever you can lay your hands on in the way of brochures and leaflets. Take as many photographs as they’ll let you, and a few more if you can. We can never use enough imagery in this place.

  M stands for ‘modification’ in Russian. We know that M3C has developed this missile, but very little information has been released about the improvements. We need to know if the malfunction rumours carry any weight. Get whatever you can; nothing is wasted. And good luck.

  I started laughing to myself and Julian opened his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Kettle’s given me some homework.’ I handed him the note. If it was going to self-destruct in five seconds I didn’t want to be the one holding it.

  ‘Not such a bad idea. Having something to do – something legitimate, I mean – will help you blend in.’

  He wasn’t wrong. The more I looked like I belonged, the better.

  The Galaxy pulled up outside Terminal 3. It was less than a week since I’d been here with Red Ken and Dex. At least this time I wasn’t in golfing pink. It was back to Timberlands, jeans and shirt. I’d left all my cover golfing clothes and the cheap and cheerful Tesco’s funeral outfit – to down-gear me in the doing-well stakes – in a bin liner outside my local Oxfam.

  I pulled my holdall from the boot, and the day-sack containing my Nikon, laptop and briefing notes.

  Julian held out his hand.

  It was the first time I’d ever shaken any of my bosses by the hand and meant it. They normally coerced me into this shit. But this time? I wanted to go.

  ‘Will you recognize him again?’

  ‘With my mates’ blood still wet on his shoes? He could have body doubles, plastic surgery or spent the last few days shoving Mars bars down his neck to become a fat fuck, but nothing will disguise his eyes, Jules. That’s what’ll tell me I’ve got him.’

  I didn’t tell him that for me this wasn’t just about taking Altun’s picture and sharpening up his CV. But I didn’t think he’d be particularly surprised. I headed into the terminal.

  I’d put on the jokey fucking-about act for Julian’s benefit because I didn’t want him to stand me down from the job. I wanted him to use me. I wanted him to think that I was being practical about the situation.

  Truth was, there was a bit more to this than revenge. I needed to square away my guilt. I couldn’t help feeling that I should have done more for Red Ken and Dex. Maybe I could have tried harder to talk them out of it. Maybe I could have been closer to them on the airstrip. That way, I might have reacted quicker. I knew the two of them would have called me a dickhead for thinking it, but they would also have understood.

  They would also have expected me to get payback, and I wouldn’t let them down.

  The terminal was its normal over-packed nightmare. I dodged the trolleys and manic wheelie-case runners as late passengers ran for their gates.

  I wasn’t going to stitch up Julian. Why would I do that to the only friend I now had? I allowed myself a rueful smile. I must be going soft. Friendship was an accolade I didn’t hand out easily. Especially when I’d only known someone a few weeks.

  I’d do what he wanted because there was stuff there that he needed to know. But after that I’d kill as many of the fuckers as I could get my hands on. I knew that wasn’t going to save the world but it would make me – and, if they were still keeping an eye on things, Red Ken and Dex – feel a whole lot better.

  45

  We hit some turbulence as we crossed the Persian Gulf, some rough stuff that toppled the Iranian businessman in the seat next to me headlong into my lap and prompted the lads in the row behind us to grab their Korans and start asking the all-merciful one to give the pilot a helping hand.

  I manhandled the Iranian back into his all-too-narrow economy-class seat and got busy with Kettle’s crib-sheets – as you do when you’re off to work not knowing anything about the subject.

  I knew all too well that if the Revolutionary Guards really wanted to grill me on what I ought to know after five years as a defence journalist, I’d be seriously in the shit – unless they were prepared to let me ask the audience or, better still, phone a friend.

  The Iranian nuclear issue had demonstrated just how keen they were to stand on their own two feet and trade punches with the big boys. The list of countries suspected of helping Tehran with its reactors, enrichment sites and isotope separation plants was a long one. There wasn’t much point in building a nuclear bomb if you didn’t have the means to deliver it and the mullahs had been hard at work on that front too.

  In 1985, they’d secretly funded North Korea to develop a long-range version of the Scud missile that Saddam had fired at Tel Aviv during the 1991 Gulf War. In exchange for the cash, North Korea gave Iran full access to the technology. Iran had had a long-range version of the Scud by the early nineties, but they had needed something even bigger. By 1998, with a lot of help from the Russians, the North Koreans and some key pieces of Chinese kit, they’d had the Shahab-3, capable of lobbing a 1,000-kilo warhead 1,300 kilometres – far enough not only to hit Israel but also Ankara, capital of NATO-aligned Turkey.

  In spite of UN sanctions against companies in Russia, China and North Korea, the missile-building technology had continued to flow into Iran. By 2008, the Shahab-3’s range had increased to 2,000 kilometres, enough to threaten much of southern Europe. As Kettle had said, when it came to developing hardware, these guys had it in their blood. They weren’t just a bunch of goatherds who’d wan
dered out of the desert.

  What the Iranians had achieved with their nuclear- and ballistic-missile programmes they’d repeated across other parts of their defence industry. The US had even given them a helping hand. In 1985, Oliver North had hopped on a plane to Tehran and cut a covert deal to supply spare parts for Iranian HAWK and TOW missile systems via Israeli intermediaries in return for a good few suitcases full of readies and the release of US hostages in Lebanon. The cash helped fund another illegal CIA operation – against the Sandinista government of Nicaragua. The Iran-Contra scandal worked its way into the press the following year. If Julian’s intel was right, it was what had given Altun his first taste of international power and money-broking. He’d been one of the young bloods in the background, learning everything he could – not only from his Iranian bosses, but from the Pentagon as well.

  Once the Iranians had worked out how to build spare parts for their inventory of US fighter jets and missiles, they’d then set about creating their own platforms. Within the past five years they’d unveiled their own domestically produced combat aircraft, helicopters, tanks and submarines. These lads really were the region’s superpower.

  I glanced at the guy now slobbering away happily in the next-door seat, and tried to square what I saw with what I read. I decided that whatever shortcomings he might have on the etiquette front, these people were on a roll.

  I picked up the M3C file again and started to leaf through it.

  The conglomerate’s breadth of capabilities was huge. It was literally a one-stop shop for any weapon you could think of.

  In 1991, with the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia’s state-owned weapons industry had been made up of multiple companies, many of which were competing against each other for the same business at home and abroad. This state of affairs clearly made no sense at all, but had continued – for almost two decades – until a couple of years ago when an ex-KGB oligarch who’d developed interests right across the sector had persuaded his government to put the nation’s entire missile industry under one roof. His roof, naturally.