separately. Those sitting together who were not married ran the risk of being arrested by the Basij or worse. When Ayatollah Khomeini had taken over in 1979, scores of coffee shops were closed on the grounds of immoral intermingling of the sexes outside marriage. Any fraternisation between young men andwomen was banned under the Iranian hardliner’s strict interpretation of Sharia law.
O’Connor ordered a black coffee and took stock. There was no doubt he was being watched, and he wondered if the Iranians had tumbled to his alias. Time would tell, and perhaps there was a connection between the hotel desk and the Basij. It was time to get out, but first he would have to check the contents of the drop. After finishing his coffee, he walked the two blocks back to his hotel and took the stairs to the fourth floor, two at a time.
He sat down on the bed and undid the heavily taped package. As DDO McNamara had promised, it contained an Iridium satellite phone, a razor-sharp Ka-Bar Hawkbill Tanto knife and a brand -new 45-calibre Glock 21, along with 200 rounds of ammunition and a note from the DDO: If you need any more than this, we’ll need to come and get you. M.
O’Connor cradled the Glock in his right hand, testing it for balance. The Austrian pistol had been O’Connor’s weapon of choice ever since he’d joined the CIA. He removed the magazine and, out of habit, checked the chamber was empty and removed the slide. Satisfied, he reassembled the weapon, removed the thread protector from the specially modified barrel and fitted the silencer. Although it was superbly engineered, the Glock 21 shared one disadvantage with all other 45s – it was loud. But the silencer contained a series of small chambers that sequentially absorbed the enormous pressure behind a bullet so effectively that the ‘click’ of the slide-reloading action was louder than the pistol shot itself.
He then checked the contents of the sat-phone pack: solar and wall charger, an additional rechargeable lithium-ion battery and a speciallydesigned antenna, all compatible with US satellite communications in Afghanistan and Iraq. For the moment, he would stick with his encrypted cell phone, but as he put his computer into his backpack, he had a feeling he would finish up in areas where cell phones were about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.
O’Connor descended the stairs to the lobby, only to find the same two young thugs he’d given the slip earlier walking in through the front door. O’Connor retreated to the first floor, doubled down the corridor and took the fire exit to the loading dock he’d reconnoitred earlier in the day. A battered old Khawar truck loaded with water bottles had pulled in, and O’Connor waited until the driver disappeared with his first load on a trolley. He slipped by the truck and doubled down past the tennis courts at the back of the hotel and on to Vanak Street, where he hailed a cab.
‘ Loftan man o bebarin be … take me to the South Bus Terminal.’ The driver gave him a toothless grin, let out the clutch with a grinding crunch and they lurched into the traffic, leaving a plume of blue smoke behind them.
The huge South Bus Terminal beside the Be’sat motorway was packed, with seventy buses docked at a circular hub which handled over 70 000 passengers a day. The hourly service to the city of Qom, 150 kilometres to the south, was about to depart, and O’Connor handed over 2000 rial and boarded, taking a seat at the back from which he could observe the rest of the passengers. Thirty minutes later, the suburbs of Tehran gave way to ploughed fields, then to salt-pans and desert, and O’Connor’s mind turned to how he and Jafari might gain access to the Iranian nuclear program, without having to fight their way out.
Chapter 13
‘I want Ahmed to read me a story!’ Rashida demanded of her mother. Jamila kissed her daughter and retreated towards the deck, where Ahmed was deep in conversation with his father.
O’Connor ordered a black coffee and took stock. There was no doubt he was being watched, and he wondered if the Iranians had tumbled to his alias. Time would tell, and perhaps there was a connection between the hotel desk and the Basij. It was time to get out, but first he would have to check the contents of the drop. After finishing his coffee, he walked the two blocks back to his hotel and took the stairs to the fourth floor, two at a time.
He sat down on the bed and undid the heavily taped package. As DDO McNamara had promised, it contained an Iridium satellite phone, a razor-sharp Ka-Bar Hawkbill Tanto knife and a brand -new 45-calibre Glock 21, along with 200 rounds of ammunition and a note from the DDO: If you need any more than this, we’ll need to come and get you. M.
O’Connor cradled the Glock in his right hand, testing it for balance. The Austrian pistol had been O’Connor’s weapon of choice ever since he’d joined the CIA. He removed the magazine and, out of habit, checked the chamber was empty and removed the slide. Satisfied, he reassembled the weapon, removed the thread protector from the specially modified barrel and fitted the silencer. Although it was superbly engineered, the Glock 21 shared one disadvantage with all other 45s – it was loud. But the silencer contained a series of small chambers that sequentially absorbed the enormous pressure behind a bullet so effectively that the ‘click’ of the slide-reloading action was louder than the pistol shot itself.
He then checked the contents of the sat-phone pack: solar and wall charger, an additional rechargeable lithium-ion battery and a speciallydesigned antenna, all compatible with US satellite communications in Afghanistan and Iraq. For the moment, he would stick with his encrypted cell phone, but as he put his computer into his backpack, he had a feeling he would finish up in areas where cell phones were about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.
O’Connor descended the stairs to the lobby, only to find the same two young thugs he’d given the slip earlier walking in through the front door. O’Connor retreated to the first floor, doubled down the corridor and took the fire exit to the loading dock he’d reconnoitred earlier in the day. A battered old Khawar truck loaded with water bottles had pulled in, and O’Connor waited until the driver disappeared with his first load on a trolley. He slipped by the truck and doubled down past the tennis courts at the back of the hotel and on to Vanak Street, where he hailed a cab.
‘ Loftan man o bebarin be … take me to the South Bus Terminal.’ The driver gave him a toothless grin, let out the clutch with a grinding crunch and they lurched into the traffic, leaving a plume of blue smoke behind them.
The huge South Bus Terminal beside the Be’sat motorway was packed, with seventy buses docked at a circular hub which handled over 70 000 passengers a day. The hourly service to the city of Qom, 150 kilometres to the south, was about to depart, and O’Connor handed over 2000 rial and boarded, taking a seat at the back from which he could observe the rest of the passengers. Thirty minutes later, the suburbs of Tehran gave way to ploughed fields, then to salt-pans and desert, and O’Connor’s mind turned to how he and Jafari might gain access to the Iranian nuclear program, without having to fight their way out.
Chapter 13
‘I want Ahmed to read me a story!’ Rashida demanded of her mother. Jamila kissed her daughter and retreated towards the deck, where Ahmed was deep in conversation with his father.
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