Andy McNab - Exit wound

‘So, now you must select the arming switch, here on the other side of the gripstock. Feel it?’ He directed my forefinger to the switch. ‘Now, push it forward. This readies the weapon for firing – super-cooling the seeker to allow it to lock onto the target’s primary heat-source, most likely its engine. When enough infrared energy is detected, you will once more notice a high-pitched signal – there, you hear it?’

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…

Like before, only louder.

‘That tells you the seeker has a firm lock and is tracking the heat-source.’

Once the missile was tracking the target, there was precious little its pilot could do, Paul (not Pavel) said. The missile operator just had to flick a switch forward of the gripstock from safety to armed, then pull the trigger. Provided the aircraft was below 10,000 feet, its destruction was 99.9 per cent guaranteed.

Where the SA-16M differed from any other system on the market – certainly one this affordable, Paul (not Pavel) added, with a smile you’d normally get from a car salesman – was that it defeated all known countermeasures. He didn’t mention those mysterious dark flares again, but I had already lodged the term and Kettle could translate when I was back in London.

I couldn’t quite see why the Taliban or a group of head jobs on the Heathrow flight-path would need Identify Friend or Foe technology: as far as they were concerned, everything up there was the enemy. But what worried me most was that Saddam’s doors could buy a shed-load of this shit.

I heard raised voices coming from the neighbouring stand. The Shahid Hemmat Industrial Complex had been invaded by the Iranian press corps. Photographers, reporters and film cameramen were jostling for position. Some even seemed to be coming to blows as they tracked an entourage a dozen strong, some wearing military uniform, moving between the ballistic-missile and space-launcher models. At the centre of the entourage, in the glare of the film camera lights, was the guy in the white turban and brown robe.

I turned to Paul (not Pavel). ‘What’s happening, mate?’

The Russian looked at his watch. ‘It’s Mohammad Kermanshahi, the leader of Iran’s Supreme National Security Council. He’s here for the press conference.’

‘What about?’

‘We are making a joint announcement with the Iranians.’ He glanced nervously at his watch again. ‘You will have to excuse me, Mr Manley. I need to make my way to the conference hall.’

When I turned back to Rockets R Us, I could see that Majid was being swept along by the crowd, against his will, towards one of the exits.

I slipped off the M3C stand and made my way to the exit furthest from the one I’d seen Majid jostled through. I pulled out the map of the exhibition centre and took a second to orient myself. The chalets were on the far side of the facility. A hatched line on the map indicated that they were segregated from the rest of the site by another level of security. The head shed didn’t want any Tom, Dick or Abdul invading their space as they talked business away from the prying eyes and ears of the exhibition halls. I wouldn’t even want to mix with people like me. If Altun was here, he’d want to be tucked away somewhere like that.

I passed through an exhibition hall filled with artillery pieces, rocket launchers and mortars, crossed the open area with the petal-strewn tank and fighter aircraft, and reached a barrier manned by a couple of AK-carriers. One was checking a pass by the driver’s window of a Toyota pick-up laden with bottles of mineral water and Zam Zam, Iran’s answer to Coca-Cola. I’d guzzled gallons of it in Afghanistan and got to quite like the stuff. It reminded me of the Strike Cola my mum used to buy in the Co-op to keep the dentist busy.

The guard returned the driver’s papers, raised the barrier and waved the truck through.

I flashed my press pass with the confidence that said, ‘Here it is, look at it, and fuck off,’ and kept moving. I ducked under the barrier and kept walking. Ahead of me was a row of single-storey executive Portakabins, with flags fluttering out front.

I pretended I knew where I was going and pressed on.

I found myself in a kind of avenue. The corporate hospitality suites stretched away to either side of me. There were clearly big bucks to be made here if you were in the mood to trade arms with the pariah state.

It was mid-morning and the sun was already high in the sky. The avenue was filled with people making their way to and from the chalets. Cars with blacked-out windows rolled past me. Crates of food and drink were off-loaded into kitchens. The aroma of spicy food hung in the air.

It was hardly the Excel Centre, but it was busy. Among the Russians, Ukrainians, Moldovans and a dozen other dodgy former members of the Soviet Good Lads Club, I was just another white face. No one paid me the slightest attention.

I pressed on, turning to give the M3C chalet the once-over as I did a walk-past. It was much like their stand, bigger and slicker than the competition. The M3C logo, a stylized arrow bisecting a circle with a red star in it, fluttered on the company flag. A couple of BG straight out of Central Casting flanked the glass entrance. They were wearing sun-gigs and suits that couldn’t hide the weapons beneath their jackets. Five feet beyond them, engines running, were three very shiny black Mercedes saloons.

I’d walked past the chalet when I heard a crackle.

I turned.

One BG had a radio up to his ear. He brought it down and waffled back.

The other half snapped to attention and pulled open the door.

A third BG waited in the front passenger seat of the middle Merc.

A moment later, a man with slicked-back hair, sun-gigs and a khaki windcheater stepped out into the sunshine. He paused, as if to smell the air, and looked about him. He seemed particularly pleased with himself. Then, escorted by one of the BG who’d been on the door, he walked slowly down the steps and slid into the Mercedes.

I had a possible.

I dropped onto one knee and made like I was tying a shoelace. I tried to get my Nikon up. Too late. The Mercedes pulled out of its parking slot and headed in the direction I’d just come from.

I doubled back as quick as I could against the flow of people.

It was an E-class, straight from the showroom. I scanned it quickly for a VDM (visual distinguishing mark). The plate meant nothing to me: it was in Farsi. I needed something to pull it from a sea of other vehicles. It had four doors, tinted windows and five-pointed, star-shaped aluminium wheel hubs; all bog-standard, which was how Altun would have liked it. The only thing that distinguished it from any other brand-new black E-class 350 was a mobile phone antenna mounted on the roof with its left-hand blade bent slightly upwards. A set of chintzy green curtains was drawn across the rear window to provide that extra little touch of anonymity.

Every now and again the driver encouraged pedestrians to move out of the way with a blast of the horn. As the crowd parted, the car surged forward ten metres or so. It reached the Zam Zam barrier. I kept on fighting my way through the crowd.

The barrier lifted and the Merc rolled forward. It manoeuvred its way around the petal-strewn tank and the fighter, still heading for the exit. Maybe if I ran through one of the exhibition halls I could get to the head of the taxi line and intercept the wagon as it drove off-site. It picked up speed as the crowd thinned. Fuck it, I was going to lose him. I fired off about six or seven shots of the rear of the Merc. I’d learn the plate script.

But Altun wasn’t leaving after all. The driver turned down an alley to the side of the conference hall, the entrance to which was blocked by an armed sentry.