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

  He heard the rear shutter rolled down, felt a door slam, an engine fire into life – and then with a jolt they were moving.

  He tested the lid of the barrel. It was secure. There was one small, neat, round opening about the size of a two pound coin – about the size of a bullet hole – and he angled his face to suck in the fetid air from the back of the truck.

  The vehicle moved smoothly and slowly and then came to an abrupt halt. He swore under his breath as his face pressed up against the hard, greasy plastic that had been inches from his face.

  Fresh rivulets of perspiration trickled from his scalp, past his temples and along his jaw-line. The engine idled. He heard loud voices and then the noise of the rear roller-door being thrown up. A thin ray of sunlight pierced his darkness through the small aperture, like the beam of a penlight.

  There were strong male voices. Someone got in. Boots thudded across the plywood floor of the truck towards him. An exchange of words and noise as a lid was prised off one of the other containers. It clattered noisily to the floor. Images of rats in barrels sprang to his mind. A grunt of acceptance and then something, a boot perhaps, thudded into his barrel. He tensed, expecting the worst.

  Another burst of unintelligible language, sharp and female – her. A reply. The boots moved away. The shutter was lowered. The engine started. They moved off.

  They travelled without further interruption for perhaps an hour, he guessed. By the time they next stopped he was painfully cramped, gagging on the lack of fresh air. His feet were now excruciatingly painful as he had been unable to wriggle the shoes off his feet. His dirty clothing was plastered to his skin with his sweat. He was suffering with dehydration and an ill temper.

  ***

  2

  The rear shutter was rolled up. Footsteps approached and the lid of his barrel was removed. The light flooded in and he gasped at the air. The woman stood over him. Squinting up into the brightness, it seemed to him that her face showed some satisfaction at the state of him. And then even that cruel emotion was gone. But it made him wonder if they could have stopped sooner to ease the suffering they must have known he’d been enduring. The thought did not endear them to him, despite what they were doing for him.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and left him to get himself out.

  She was waiting at the back of the van, watching the street. He resisted his strong urge to complain at his treatment and her attitude towards him. Not only did he feel it would be a waste of his breath but he also understood something of the extreme danger she and her accomplices were putting themselves in to assist him.

  ‘The building with the gate,’ she said. ‘You will be safe here, but it would be foolish to behave so. Wait until I signal you to come.’ Then she turned and locked eyes with him. ‘Remember: you are dirt now. Think like it. Behave like it. Leave your western arrogance behind you.’

  As she jumped down and made her way to the entrance of the building, he found thinking like dirt easier now that he’d been trapped in a barrel and transported like a commodity.

  With her threats and attitudes, the woman might just have been trying to scare him – which she had – but she was also right: to be caught here, like this, could be worse than death.

  The neighbourhood was unlike any other he’d seen in his two weeks in the country. He’d been part of the security team for the UN delegation of the International Atomic Energy Agency and they had been closely chaperoned and monitored, isolated from anything that didn’t concern them. He’d seen the inside of his hotel, the inside of vehicles and the inside of Iranian nuclear installations. What he’d seen through the tinted glass of their four-wheel-drives was fleeting images of modern highways and prosperous districts, vast areas of dry, arid land and desert, and nothing much of interest in between. The Iranian authorities had shuttled them from A to B with speed and efficiency.

  They were clearly in one of the poorer residential districts of the city. The buildings of brick and concrete were packed in tightly. A narrow brick alleyway with a dirt base ran up the side of the building the woman had gone into. He got a sense of the unregulated, uncontrolled growth of buildings similar to those he had seen in other impoverished parts of old towns and cities of the developing world. Other than some peeling paint, there wasn’t a patch of green anywhere.

  A pair of old men in traditional clothing shuffled along the roadway. He withdrew into the shadows of the van. A car went slowly by. A dog started barking a couple of streets away. There was little other noise. The heat was stifling. He wondered how hot it got in the height of the summer.

  She reappeared after a few seconds to beckon him over. He dropped down to the road and grunted with the jolt of pain in his sore, cramped toes. He limped over to her.

  ‘Try not to overplay your part,’ she said. ‘It will draw attention to you.’

  ‘I’m not acting,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘These bloody shoes are killing me.’ In another time and place it might have been funny.

  ‘Quiet,’ she hissed. ‘Follow me.’

  It was blissfully cool in the stairwell. She led them up a narrow staircase, enclosed on both sides by cold stone. He let his palm drag up it for the simple sensual pleasure it brought him. He wanted to stop and rest his cheek against the blocks worn shiny and smooth by the careless passage of thousands of bodies.

  They exited onto a small bare landing, off which there were two doors. She crossed to the nearest and tapped lightly. It was opened at once and they were admitted.

  Before Acer could be introduced to his host, he’d kicked off his footwear and groaned with the relief, which bordered on ecstasy.

  ‘It is not necessary for you to remove your shoes while you are here,’ said the softly-spoken man in excellent English. ‘In fact, it might be better if you kept them on in case we are forced to leave quickly.’

  ‘If we have to leave quickly, I’m going barefoot,’ Acer said. ‘I don’t care if we’re running over broken glass or hot coals; I’m not putting those shoes on again.’

  They stared at his feet. His socks were spotted with blood.

  ‘We will get you something bigger, something more comfortable,’ said the woman – and the way she stressed her last phrase made it clear how she regarded his lack of gratitude and his complaining.

  ‘Come in,’ said the man. He did not offer his hand in welcome. He did not introduce himself.

  Acer followed them through to a sunlit room. It was furnished basically with items that had seen better days and probably better houses. There were heavy curtains at the windows, heavy carpets on the wooden flooring and a heavy smell of old fabric hung in the air somewhere between quaintly musty and unhealthily mildewed.

  ‘Please, sit,’ said the man. He indicated a wide, low armchair that could have been in the shops when Acer was born.

  Acer slumped into it and bent to massage his feet.

  ‘A drink?’ said the man.

  ‘Water, please.’

  With an upward jerk of his chin the man indicated that the woman should fetch it.

  ‘Who are you? Where am I? And what’s going on?’ said Acer. He straightened in his seat and appraised the man. He was of slight build and less than average height. His youthful face was narrow and wore a troubled expression, something Acer felt certain was a permanent feature. His eyes were naturally sad and slightly distended. He could have been nineteen. He could have been approaching middle age. He wore a thick moustache and Acer noticed him nibbling at it absently.

  The man half smiled a little lopsidedly and apologetically. ‘My name is Hassan,’ he said. ‘We are friends of your government and enemies of our own. Traitors. Rebels with a cause,’ he added, and smiled his sadness again.

  ‘What is your cause?’

  The woman returned with a wooden tray. Hassan waited while she set it down on a battered low table between them. Acer helped himself to the water and guzzled it thirstily.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She perched on the arm o
f the only other vacant chair. She stared intently at Acer and he felt only coldness for the touch of her gaze.

  The man had a cigarette alight and he inhaled affectionately. ‘Our cause? We are part of a growing movement within Iran that is disaffected with the regime. We want change. Like our neighbours. We want Iran to go forward into the twenty-first century, not backwards into history.’

  ‘The regime changed only a short while ago.’

  The sad smile was back through a cloud of smoke. ‘Nothing changed except the people on show. The ideas, the dogma, the system, the hardliners who control my country remain the same – oppressive, violent, intolerant, backward-thinking.’

  ‘All right. How does your problem with the regime fit in with me, with what I’m here for?’

  ‘I will be honest with you. We are using you. If we help you to get what you have come for the political fallout for my country could be equivalent to the atomic destruction they are trying to build. Your country might be small but it has power and connections still. The weight of opinion and condemnation by the international community when the world discovers what the Iranian regime has been complicit in could be something formidable. Do not make the mistake of believing all Iranians think the same way. There will be outrage here, too. The whole could prove enough to destabilise the system, it could provide and encourage an opportunity for other voices in Iran to be heard and listened to. And that would be to our advantage.’

  Acer looked between them. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Qom. It is southwest of Tehran.’

  ‘I’ve been near here. To the uranium enrichment facility at Fordo.’

  ‘Fordo is twenty miles east.’

  ‘Is that where they’re holding the family?’

  His hosts exchanged a quick look.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The man is dead.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘The mother? The children? There were two children.’

  ‘We have been able to locate only one. We believe there is only one now.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We do not know?’

  ‘Where is the woman?’

  ‘We do not know?’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? What’s the point in me being here if you don’t even know where she is?’

  ‘Because we know where the surviving child is. Knowing where the child is will help us to find out where the woman is. We are expecting news soon.’

  ‘Where is the child?’

  ‘In an institution.’

  ‘What sort of institution?’

  ‘An orphanage. The mother is allowed to visit. She comes once a week to see her child. That is how we will find her. We understand that she will be visiting the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘You are our guest here. We will talk of what needs to be done.’

  ‘What needs to be done is for me to obtain irrefutable evidence of her existence and then get out of Iran and home to the UK.’

  ‘Of course. Are you hungry? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Do you have Internet?’

  Hassan smiled but was polite enough not to laugh. ‘No. Not here.’

  ‘Telephones, a satellite phone, perhaps? Mine went with the man who took my place at the airport.’ He shot a disapproving glance at the woman. She showed no signs of feeling it.

  ‘Sorry. No. We have cell phones that will work in Iran but that is all.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Weapons will be no good to you,’ said the man. ‘It would not be possible to shoot your way out of Iran.’

  ‘So what have you got?’

  ‘Food – and we can get you some bigger shoes.’

  Acer thought the man should be laughing but he remained impassive and his gaze direct.

  ‘Food and bigger shoes will have to do then. What about a bath and some clean clothes?’

  ‘Might I suggest that you forgo both?’ said the man. ‘We want you to fit in, not stand out.’

  ‘And being stinking and filthy will do that?’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  Hassan and the woman had a short conversation in their native language. The man turned back to Acer. ‘We will organise food. I’m sorry we do not have the other things you ask for. We must leave you here, alone. Please, keep away from the windows, stay in the rooms and do not answer the door to anyone except us.’

  ‘Don’t worry on any of those scores.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Look, thanks for what you’re doing, how you’re helping. I understand the risks you’re taking. I just want to find my evidence and get out.’

  Hassan nodded his understanding.

  ‘We’ll need a good camera. I’ll need photographs of the woman.’

  ‘That, I’m sure we can manage,’ said Hassan.

  Hassan and the woman left. Acer locked the door after them and went to the kitchen to get more water. He took the bottle back to the main room and stood in the shadows of the window reveal to look down on the street below. Again he breathed out heavily. He was not happy. He should have insisted at the airport that they let him keep his satellite telephone and GPS tracking device. But it had all been so sudden. As soon as he’d reached the airport with the delegation he’d believed any window of opportunity to get the information he’d come for had been firmly shut. They had surprised him.

  He’d fully expected that he was going to get on the plane back to Vienna without having been contacted by the group that Crouch and his British intelligence contacts had organised for him. And it wouldn’t have been his fault. For two weeks he’d waited and watched and nothing had happened.

  His lack of action over the contents of his backpack now meant he was stranded in hostile territory, completely alone, and with no one having the first idea of where he was. If he got into trouble, he’d be screwed. Maybe he already was. He shook his head at the position he found himself in.

  This wasn’t his business. It wasn’t his fight. In a period of delayed shock and emotionally vulnerable at news of the sudden death of a woman he thought he might have had a chance of a future with he’d allowed himself to be seduced into taking the job. It had been a foolish and sentimental decision and one he now regretted.

  But regret and all the unhelpful influences that came with it would not help him now. He was here, with people who wanted to help. And his best chance of survival and success was to do exactly what he had come for, focus on his exit and get home.

  He shifted his weight and his feet renewed their calls for attention. He went in search of a bowl of hot water and maybe some antiseptic. As he limped out of the room he cursed himself for not asking them to pick him up some plasters and cream. He needed to get his head in the game and start thinking.

  ***

  3

  The phone on the British intelligence officer’s desk rang twice before it was picked up. He listened, asked a couple of questions, listened some more and put it down, frowning. He drummed his fingers on the desk, the report he’d been engrossed in all but forgotten. He picked the phone up again and dialled the private number of the section chief, as he’d been instructed to do when he had news. Any news.

  ‘Yes,’ said Crouch. From his tone, he might have been reading a report, too.

  ‘You asked to be notified when there was news of our man in Iran, sir.’

  Crouch’s gaze went to his desk calendar. ‘He should be back today.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He should be, but he’s not. The plane arrived back in Vienna an hour ago, one short. Our man wasn’t on it.’

  There was a long pause before Crouch said, ‘Details?’

  ‘Apparently, there was some trouble at the airport. The Iranians detained a man fitting Sansom’s description as he was boarding.’

  ‘Fitting his description?’ said Crouch.

  ‘Eyewitnesses say the man was wearing Sansom’s clothes, he had his bag and he was the right size and height. But th
ey’re quite sure it wasn’t Sansom.’

  ‘What about our people on the ground there?’

  ‘We still haven’t been able to make contact. I’m about to try again. Thought you’d want to know this immediately, sir.’

  ‘As soon as you’ve spoken to them, call me.’

  Crouch terminated the call, sighed heavily, pushed back his chair, got up and went to stare out of the window at the Thames and London in the grip of a seasonal storm. The trees on the opposite bank were flailing around and the rain was coming down in sheets. Crouch thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and creased his bushy eyebrows down in a troubled frown.

  ‘Well, Acer,’ he said to himself, ‘I hope to Christ you know what you’re doing.’

  ***

  4

  It was well into evening before anyone returned. He heard a vehicle brake to a hard stop outside the building. Someone was in a hurry and not concerned about the attention that kind of driving in a quiet neighbourhood would bring.

  He crossed to the window and, from the shadows, risked a look down. He didn’t recognise the car parked awkwardly outside his apartment building, but at least it didn’t have flashing lights and support vehicles.

  He couldn’t see who had entered the building. He crossed to the door and cracked it open. He heard the unmistakeable swift ascent of one pair of feet on the stone treads. He shut the door and waited, looked down at his feet and scowled.

  There was a firm rap on the woodwork. There was no convenient spyhole and because they had made no arrangement for passwords or secret knocks he had little choice but to open it. The woman stood there, breathing heavily. She looked worried. He believed that if she looked worried then there must be something to worry about.

  ‘We must go. Now,’ she said, between deep breaths.

  He didn’t even look back into the room. He’d brought nothing with him.

  ‘Shoes?’

  She looked like she would explode at him and then it was off her features.