Andy McNab - Exit wound

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 Russian 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.

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.