Smoke and Mirrors (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 3) Read online

  Smoke

  and

  Mirrors

  The Third Acer Sansom Novel

  Oliver Tidy

  Copyright 2014 Oliver Tidy

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  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any persons without the permission of the author.

  Oliver Tidy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  Smoke and mirrors: irrelevant, fraudulent or misleading information serving to obscure the truth of a situation.

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  The Acer Sansom novels now number four. They don’t have to be read in order; they do all work as stand-alone novels. However, to get the most out of each it is recommended that they are read in the order in which they were written

  Here are the books of the series in order with their Amazon UK & US links.

  #1 Dirty Business Amazon UK Amazon US

  #2 Loose Ends Amazon UK Amazon US

  #3 Smoke and Mirrors Amazon UK Amazon US

  #4 Deep State Amazon UK Amazon US.

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  Table of Contents

  What do you do? Six weeks earlier. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18

  Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25

  Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

  Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39

  Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46

  Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53

  Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60

  Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67

  Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74

  Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81

  Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88

  Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Chapter 95

  Chapter 96 Chapter 97 Chapter 98 Chapter 99 Chapter 100 Chapter 101 Chapter 102

  Chapter 103 Chapter 104 Epilogue

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  What do you do?

  You’re minding your own business, jotting notes on an A4 pad. A man takes the seat next to you. You don’t know him. He’s sweating, clearly anxious. You can feel the heat of indecision coming off him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  You ignore him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  You look up. There are others around but he’s talking to you, looking at you. What you see in his eyes frightens you. But he does not frighten you. He does not look insane but they don’t always.

  ‘Can I have one piece of paper and borrow something to write with? Please. It’ll take seconds. It’s important.’

  You hesitate. You look around at the faces staring in your direction, all strangers to you and to each other. You are the temporary entertainment breaking the boredom of their routine. You tear off a piece of paper and lend him your pencil because it is easier that way.

  He writes on his knee. The pencil goes through the paper and he swears quietly. You pass over your pad for him to lean on. He mumbles a thank you. He doesn’t look up.

  You try not to look at what he’s writing. But you see that his hand is shaking. You meet the stares of some of the others. They either look away or stare blankly back.

  He has finished.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hands back your pad and pencil. You breathe out quiet relief and hope that’s it.

  You cannot ignore the noise of him folding the paper neatly into four.

  Minutes pass.

  It’s your stop. You get out. He gets out behind you. You walk. He is matching your pace. There are others around you. You are not properly afraid, yet.

  He gets in front of you and blocks your path. He is trying to smile at you but he can’t beat his fear. People are jostling you in their hurry.

  There is something in his face. Something genuine. Do you know him? He holds his paper in front of him. He holds it out for you to take.

  ‘Forget your day. Take this paper. Find a policeman. Give it to him. Tell him about me. Make him read it. Make him take it seriously. Lives may depend on it.’

  He turns and hurries away. Within seconds you have lost him in the sea of heads.

  What do you do?

  ***

  Six weeks earlier .

  As she had done on the three previous nights since they had stumbled into bed together, Susan arrived at Acer’s new home as soon as London traffic allowed after a day’s work. They hadn’t fallen into a relationship, it was more of a casual understanding, but she had stayed with him each night, leaving early the following morning.

  He was sitting in a deckchair in the rambling back garden wearing a coat and hat, hanging out with nature. She noticed the can of beer in his hand. She helped herself to a glass of wine from the box in the fridge and joined him.

  ‘You won’t be able to keep this up much longer,’ she said, exaggerating a shiver.

  ‘Never a truer word spoken.’

  ‘How did it go with Grouch?’

  ‘His name is Crouch.’ He smiled in her direction.

  ‘Did you tell him to stick his job?’

  He took a long pull on the can before answering.

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to break the Official Secrets Act and tell you something. I’m going to tell you so you understand why I’ve chosen to do a job for him.’ He was staring out over the long grass towards the dilapidated shed that leaned against the high brick wall.

  ‘If you’re going to work for him, I won’t understand.’ She was standing.

  ‘All right. But at least you’ll know. I want you to know. It is important to me that you do. Please, Susan. Sit down.’ She sat, and regarded him angrily. ‘You remember I spoke about the Hammonds?’

  ‘Of course. What have they got to do with you? What are they doing to help them?’

  ‘Sending me to get evidence they can then use as leverage to get them back quietly.’

  ‘You are joking.’

  He explained what little Crouch had told him.

  ‘Are you mad? If you get caught sniffing around an Iranian nuclear facility they’ll execute you as a spy and stick it on YouTube.’

  ‘I’m just going to try to get some evidence. I’ll have diplomatic immunity.’

  ‘Acer! How can you imagine that will help you if you get found out? This is Iran we’re talking about.’ She sounded
it out slowly as though to a hard-of-hearing simpleton. ‘They don’t give a shit for diplomatic immunity, human rights or anything else come to that. Change your mind.’

  ‘No. I can’t. There’s a hook in me, Susan. I keep thinking, what if that had been me, my family, my kids. No, I have to try to help because of what I share with them from The Rendezvous.’

  ‘You don’t, Acer. Wherever you got that line from, send it back. It’s not true. This is a job for the intelligence services, MI6. They’re trained for it.’

  ‘So will I be in nine days.’

  ‘You’ve accepted?’

  ‘Yes. I told you. It’s just this one job for him, for the Hammonds.’

  ‘Oh, that old chestnut – just one more job. You can have a good, comfortable life here. You’ve earned it. Don’t throw it all away like some patriotic fool.’

  He remained calm. ‘I’m not doing it for my country. I’m doing it for the children. I can only ask you to try to understand. And now, I must swear you to secrecy over this.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll have to kill you.’

  ‘It’s not funny, you arsehole.’

  ‘No. I know it’s not.’

  A gust of wind ruffled the long grass and it began to rain.

  ***

  1

  ‘Do not turn around. Do not seem to be listening.’

  Acer was startled out of his day-dreaming by the harshly-whispered instructions in only slightly accented English close behind him. He controlled his natural reaction to turn, to see who was responsible for them. He could not immediately understand whether this was a threat or a contact. He continued staring straight ahead and felt another bead of sweat make its cold, crooked way down his side under his shirt.

  ‘Wait five minutes. Go to the toilets behind you.’ He caught the noise of a broom going across the floor.

  He waited and continued his people-watching from behind his sunglasses. When five minutes were up, he stood, stretched, and hooked his small pack over his shoulder. He looked about him like a man searching for something and headed for the gents. His sweat continued to run freely in the stifling, trapped heat of Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport departure lounge.

  So this was it. After two weeks of inaction, doing almost nothing except trail around after UN inspectors, standing about while they snooped and pried, feeling hateful eyes crawling over him, and they were here. He did not appreciate their timing. His plane was scheduled for boarding in fifteen minutes. And he couldn’t wait to get out of Iran.

  Apart from him, the corridor was empty. He turned into the opening for the toilets. The door to the cleaners’ station opened wide at his approach. An urgent hand beckoned him into the darkness beyond. He pushed up his sunglasses and went in.

  As soon as he was over the threshold strong hands grabbed him and pulled him in. He heard the door thump shut. A bright, bare electric light bulb came on, making him squint. There were three of them: a woman and two men. One of the men was wearing only a vest and shorts. He looked afraid.

  ‘Quickly, out of your clothes,’ said the woman.

  He recognised the voice from the departure hall. He didn’t move.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hurry. Your clothes. You’re coming with us. He...’ she pointed at the semi-naked man, similar in size and build to Acer. ‘...is taking your place. Hurry. They will come looking if you are out of their sight for long.’

  Still he didn’t move. ‘Wait a minute. My plane’s leaving soon. If I miss it, I’m stuck here.’

  ‘You are staying. He is going in your place. That is the new arrangement.’

  ‘Says who?’

  The woman was losing her patience in response to his stalling. ‘Do you want to help them or not?’

  ‘It’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Then you must trust us.’

  The new arrangement did not please him. He hesitated. ‘You’re going to get me out of Iran another way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sighed heavily and began stripping. As he removed his clothes his replacement dressed in them. Acer was thrown grubby, work-stained trousers and a top – the loose-fitting plain and shapeless clothing he associated with the lowest levels of Iranian worker. When he went to put his boots back on, the woman said, ‘No. He is you, now. He must have everything.’

  Acer hesitated.

  ‘Hat, sunglasses, watch, identification,’ said the woman.’

  Reluctantly, he handed it all over.

  In three minutes they were done. The trio embraced briefly, expressing their final thoughts for each other in a language Acer hadn’t the first idea of. The man now wearing his clothes briefly looked in his direction. His eyes hinted at his anxieties for their subterfuge. In Acer’s clothes, long-unshaven, with the sunglasses and the baseball cap covering his closely-cropped hair, he would pass a cursory glance – a headcount. That would be all. But Acer had been through passport control, the checks, the scrutiny. His replacement would now simply have to sit and wait to be called to board the UN-chartered flight back to Vienna with the rest of the inspection team. Keep his head and his gaze down, and he might make it.

  As the man put his hand on the door handle the woman said something that made him stop and turn. She reached for the little pack Acer had set on a stack of toilet rolls. She tossed it over to the man. He hooked it over his shoulder.

  ‘Wait. I have things in there. Things I’ll need.’

  The woman stepped in close. Her eyes blazed up at him for his whining and time-wasting. ‘Everything goes with him.’

  She jerked her head at the man, and before Acer could protest further he had disappeared without a word. She snapped out another order and the other man present slipped out. Then she turned back to Acer. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is...’

  ‘Wrong. You have no name. You have no identity. You are no one. In my country you no longer exist. Understand that and understand it quickly. You are leaving on the next plane with your delegation. You are already gone. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not think without me telling you to think. You will do everything you are told. Understand it. If something goes wrong we are all worse than dead. Do not think that your government will be able to help you. Iran fears no one. And know this: if they come for us, if they get close, I will kill you myself without a second thought. I will do it to protect my family and the families of those who are risking their lives to help. Now, we must go.’

  She stood back a pace and appraised him. He understood from the set of her mouth that she was unimpressed. She looked around the hot little room that stank of cleaning products, stagnant water and stale air. She snatched up a keffiyeh and threw it to him.

  ‘Cover your head with it. Pick up that box. Follow me and start thinking like you are dirt. And keep your eyes down until I can find you some dark glasses. Your eyes could get us all killed.’

  She cracked the door, waited a moment, and then walked out. He followed. He kept his eyes down, the box tight to his chest. The shoes were too small. They pinched painfully and he had to compensate with a limp. It made him awkward – something that could draw attention. Behind him he heard an announcement but understood nothing of the muffled English language translation except the flight number.

  She moved slowly carrying her own box. Her walk betrayed none of the decisive purpose she’d so far shown. She’d taken on a role – one of the airport’s cleaning staff: poor, without standing in Iranian society, someone to be ignored. Dirt.

  The corridor was long and quiet. A wall of glass provided a view of planes and runways. The glaring midday sun streamed in to create a temperature that could have baked bread. And the hottest days of summer were well past in this part of the world.

  A group of passengers hurried past them in the opposite direction. He lowered his eyes. He recognised them as members of his delegation.

  Ahead, two men in airport security uniforms careered around the corner, pointed and
started shouting. They were both armed. They began jogging towards them.

  She kept moving forward. Acer followed her lead and braced himself for interception. The armed men rushed past them without a look in their direction. He resisted the urge to turn and see the focus of their attentions. He released his breath and hobbled on.

  She used a swipe card to push through double doors at the end of the corridor into a part of the airport off limits to passengers.

  ‘Keep up,’ she said over her shoulder.

  He bit back his comment about the shoes. The second man from the toilet supplies closet emerged from a door to their left. She went through and Acer followed her. They were on the raised concrete plinth of a loading bay. A box truck had reversed up to it. The tailgate was open.

  After a glance around, the woman said, ‘In. Hurry.’

  He didn’t know if he could trust them but he knew he had to, for the Hammonds. He stepped over the gap and into the van in his own version of the giant leap. And in truth it felt more dangerous to him than it had seemed to Neil Armstrong.

  She followed him in and crossed to one of several plastic drums roped to the bulkhead. She lifted the lid of one and said, ‘Get in.’

  Again, he hesitated.

  ‘Get in,’ she repeated, her voice harsher. ‘Quick. Every second wasted is a second longer for them to find you if something goes wrong inside.’

  He clambered over the rim of the nearest barrel and squatted down, his knees up under his chin. The lid was replaced and he was plunged into darkness. Immediately he felt the suffocating closeness of imprisonment press in on him. He took a deep breath and fought his claustrophobic instincts. The thick, trapped air tasted oily. He felt it sticking to the back of his throat. He swallowed and it was not pleasant. He ran his fingers over the inside of the barrel to find the surface slick with the residue of some recently-decanted substance.