Andy McNab - Exit wound

The two BG stepped out of the car and did their job, covering their principal against a shoot from both ends of the alley.

He darted into the building.

I ran across the road and muscled my way to the front of the crowd surging through the large glass doors.

A cordon of men clutching AKs to their chests directed us towards a huge staircase that curved up to the first floor. As I climbed, I spotted some of the journalists who’d been in the press centre and slipped in behind them. A Brit and a French guy were speculating on trade-fair gossip. I overtook them at the entrance to the conference room. There was another logjam. A phalanx of flustered media-relations people, some Iranian, some Russian, staffed a table to the right of the door. A woman in a headscarf was signing journalists in. The lad with the badges on his hat argued the toss with her in German. I could just hear her above the din. We all had to hand in our cameras. ‘The Ministry of Information will provide the pictures.’ She took his and gave him a numbered ticket.

Fair one. The Afghan warlord, Ahmad Shah Masood, had been assassinated two days before 9/11 by Al-Qaeda posing as journalists. They’d detonated a bomb rigged inside their TV camera.

More journalists milled around us and had a good honk. I was too busy deleting the Merc’s registration-plate pictures. I had to. If they had any sense they would check the cameras while they had the chance, and half a dozen hits of a VIP number-plate wouldn’t be good for business.

An extended hand almost hit my face. ‘Aha, James Manley, ADTM . We meet at last!’ The Brit I’d passed on the stairs looked up from my badge and we shook. ‘I’ve been reading your stuff for years. Some of us thought you didn’t exist, dear boy.’

I managed my best smile as the pissed-off German disappeared inside without his big lens.

He kept on shaking. ‘Collier. Military Systems and Components Quarterly .’ In his other hand, he was clutching a pipe.

This wasn’t the time for pleasantries. ‘Collier,’ I said. ‘Fuck off.’

He stood there trying to work out if he’d heard me right.

The woman was asking me to open my day-sack. She removed the Nikon and gave me a ticket. ‘If you have a mobile phone, Mr Manley, you need to keep it switched off while you are in the conference room. If you do not, it will be taken from you. You can collect your camera from here when the conference is concluded.’ She gave me a badge and waved me on.

The conference hall was built like a theatre. There were banked seats – around two hundred of them – leading down to a stage. Whole blocks near the front were filled with Iranians, all with the same red badges. The front row itself had been reserved.

The noise was deafening. Near the front, photographers jostled each other for a good view. The stage was bare except for a long table covered with a bright red cloth. Ten matching red chairs were ranged behind it. On the table there were two jugs of water, a glass for each seat, and three evenly spaced microphones. To keep the theme going, a single vase of flowers sat in the centre of the table.

Name-plates were arranged in front of each chair, but I was too far away to read them.

The only clue to the imminent announcement was a PowerPoint slide that erupted on a screen behind the table: Towards A New Era of Space Collaboration . It looked like Military Systems and his French mate had been right.

I flipped down one of the seats near the back and played about with my boot, trying to extract the mobile without looking like I was drawing a weapon. I got up again and made my way to the aisle, then down towards the melee of photographers. ‘’Scuse me, coming through, sorry, ’scuse me…’

The lights went down, leaving just the stage illuminated.

The auditorium fell silent as White Turban walked onto the stage. All the red badges jumped up and stood to attention. They stayed on their feet while more dignitaries filed in. Some went on to the stage, others to the VIP seats.

Then came my possible. He took the furthest seat on the right, not far from an emergency exit. His size, face shape and nose were all familiar. One of his BG kept the exit clear. The other stood behind his left shoulder.

I had to get much closer to make a positive ID and take a decent picture. I elbowed my way down towards him. I felt a tap on my shoulder and breath in my ear. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ Majid whispered. He made it sound like an act of complete betrayal.

I turned to him as the waffle sparked up on stage. ‘Sorry, mate, I got lost trying to find you so I thought I’d just crack on.’

‘Please, James, do not get lost again. This will be a very important announcement. Something positive for you to write about. We listen now.’

Up at the table, White Turban leant closer to a microphone.

Majid nudged me. ‘This is Minister Kermanshahi, a very important man – a very powerful man.’

‘What’s he saying?’

‘One of my colleagues will provide a translation.’

On cue, someone at the end of the table started to interpret, first in Russian, then in English. The announcement concerned the teaming of Iran’s illustrious rocket industry with Russia’s foremost rocket-manufacturing company, M3C. Nobody was actually calling a spade a spade and mentioning the word ‘missile’. The purpose of the teaming arrangement between Shahid Hemmat and M3C, explained the interpreter, was to help establish Iran as a true presence in the commercial space launch business. Using its long-standing experience, M3C would help Iran adapt its existing two-stage rockets to launch micro-satellites into space. At this point, there was a loud ripple of applause from the red-badge brigade. White Turban subdued them with a wave of his hand.

The presentations from the stage went on for the best part of an hour. My eyes never left my target. I was just too far away for a picture, and with Majid at my elbow I had no chance anyway. That didn’t matter just now. What did was that I’d found him. His eyes confirmed it.

The interpreter announced that the formalities were over, but the minister would be happy to take some questions.

Altun turned in his seat and gestured towards the emergency exit. The BG stepped forward. As the lights came on for questions he bent down to take his instructions. On the back of his neck a tattoo linked his collar to his hairline. I couldn’t see the pattern. I didn’t need to.

Altun moved swiftly to the emergency exit with Tattoo and the other BG.

I started to get up. I’d catch them outside.

A hand grabbed me.

‘I’m sorry, Majid, I need the toilet.’

‘No, James, we have to wait until the important men leave. It is very impolite. You must stay.’

A woman’s voice, clear, loud and confident, fired the first question. Her accent was Russian. ‘Minister Kermanshahi… I would like you to tell us about the military implications of this deal…’

It was Agnetha from the press centre.

Kermanshahi looked like he’d been hit by a tank round. He raised his eyes, shielding them against the lights that shone down on the stage.

Everybody turned to look at her, including Altun and Tattoo.

On the stage, the interpreter whispered something into Kermanshahi’s ear. His face tightened with anger. The interpreter picked up the microphone. ‘There are no military implications. Now, if you please-’

‘In particular, Minister Kermanshahi, I would like you to explain why Iran is acting as a broker in the supply of weapons built by M3C to-’

There was a howl of indignation from the red badges but my eyes were on the emergency exit. It was closed. Altun had disappeared.