Run With The Brave (6 page)

Operation Overflow had come to a premature and ignominious end.

Under a clear blue sky, Afari Asgari watched with a mixture of hate and fear as the late model Mercedes turned into the local market place; a wide street teeming with people and lined with colourful stalls. Her hate burned fiercely from the death of her parents by the brutal ruling regime and her fear from what might happen if she failed to succeed at what she was about to do. These emotions were mitigated a little at the thought her actions might, in no small way, help to destroy Iran's ambitions to become a major nuclear power. Her target, the vehicle with a police motorcycle escort, which slowly pushed its way through the noisy throng; in the rear sat the leading scientist controlling Iran's nuclear weapons programme. The current president, although seemingly wanting better relationships with the West, was unable to thwart these ambitions coveted by the opposition and the hawks within his own party. But most importantly, he did not have the backing of the supreme religious leader – the ayatollah. These factions wanted beyond all else to exert total power over the region, and Afari, along with many others in the MEK (People's Mujahedin of Iran), wanted no part. Today the scientist would pay for his role in these ambitions.

Controlling her fear, she stepped out from her vantage point into the milling crowd and headed towards the vehicle, praying the others were ready. Concealed within her
jilbab
she carried a small but powerful pre-set magnetic charge. The vehicle slowed; she got closer – heart pounding.

Suddenly, the Mercedes halted to avoid the lead police motorcyclist from being bowled over by melons cascading in large numbers from a collapsed stall. Fellow conspirators had done their job; now it was her turn. The rear police escort pushed his motorbike forward to help his fallen colleague, leaving the rear of the vehicle unguarded. In the confusion, Afari jostled her way to the side of the vehicle. Here, amongst the pressing humanity, she quickly removed the compact bomb through a slit in her robe, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, and then, in one swift movement, placed it up inside the rear wheel rim. She felt more than heard the solid clunk of metal adhering to metal before hurriedly stepping away, turning and vanishing into the throng. The shaped charge would direct the explosive power to inside the vehicle which would hopefully kill the occupants but theoretically leave nearby people and traffic unscathed.

She walked briskly away through the narrow alleyways of District 10, and headed for her small apartment in Qazvin Avenue. She knew the area well having been brought up in the teeming alleyways of this southern part of central Tehran. Petite and attractive with soft, rounded features and piercing hazel eyes, she was only fifteen years old when her mother and father died. Resolved to avenge their deaths she joined the MEK at eighteen and had been involved in guerrilla warfare against the oppressive regime ever since. Now twenty-five, she had become a hardened insurgent in her native land. She believed the ruling elite ignored the people at their peril and had hoped that by now the Israelis would have bombed the nuclear manufacturing plants out of existence, finding it hard to understand why they continued to hold back. In conjunction with Israel's Mossad, the MEK's focus was on destroying the current regime's nuclear ambitions, and the assassination of one of its scientists would help to make that possible.

Afari eventually reached her apartment building and was about to enter when she heard above the noise of the traffic, a dull boom someway in the distance. She smiled. Arriving at the first floor, she entered the apartment and suddenly froze. Standing in the small lounge were three men. One held a silenced pistol levelled directly at her chest.

Fear and panic seared through her – VEVAK, Iran's secret police. She had dreaded this moment, knowing one day it had to come.

The man with the gun asked for ID; the hardened features of the other two held her firmly in their gaze. She raised her handbag and was warned not to do anything silly. She handed over her driver's license.

The man glanced at it and then threw it on the table.

He flicked the gun up and down indicating for her to empty the rest of the contents of the bag onto the table. She did so.

One of the men sifted through the jumble and indicated nothing of interest.

Then the third said abruptly in a thick accent, “You are a terrorist, accused of crimes against the State.”

Fear seared through her like a knife. “Who says this of me?” she shot back, inwardly trembling, almost unable to stop it showing.

The one who had rifled through her bag said in a cultured voice, “We know you are MEK and involved with recent bombings.”

Three pairs of eyes bored into her, making her want to vomit, “That is not true!” she blurted, mind racing to think of a way out.

“Do not deny; it will make it worse for you,” he spat with a cold smile, then turned to the others.

They smirked, running eyes over her body.

Oh my God – rape!

She spun and lunged for the door. But not quickly enough and they were instantly upon her.

A short struggle, before they dragged Asfari kicking and screaming back to the table. Quickly removing her
jilbab
and underclothes, they pressed the top half of her naked body face down on the table with feet on the floor and arms stretched out across the veneer, held at the wrists.

Would she survive this? She feared for her life.

The cultured voice, laughing, spread her legs whilst the other two pulled on her outstretched arms. He dropped his trousers and thrust into her. She sobbed as she felt his groping and brutal penetration and his rough hands running all over her upper body. When he had finished the other two followed, taking their time, revelling in her torment. The violation completely overwhelming, she tried to blank out the pain and anguish thinking of her mother and father and of the good times she had spent with them; but most of all she thought of revenge.

When the last one had satisfied himself she was ordered to dress. Hurting from the brutalization of her body and weeping with shame and revulsion, she wanted to die. One of the men handcuffed her and the three, laughing and joking, led her out of the building and into a waiting car which took them to the Ministry of Intelligence and Security HQ in downtown Tehran.

Suddenly, Frank Ryder was jolted from his stupor at the sound of clanking cell doors, shouting and scuffling, as men were dragged out of their cells and along the corridor outside. He felt bile rise in his throat. He had coped with the beatings but had only just held on when the grinning brown-faced interrogators had used electric probes. Thank God he'd listened to the techniques of blanking out pain taught by the psychologists and trainers at Hereford. He thought of home, even his wild youth in the Brixton streets, absent parents, and fishing for big carp in the Kent lakes, anything to take his mind away from the brutality, not allowing the agony to penetrate and overcome his resistance. He questioned himself time and time again.
Why the fuck not tell them what they want to know? Who the fuck cares if they know? Hey! Hey! Who gives a fuck!
But he did not give in; instead he lost himself in memories and mind over pain. He believed the more you showed suffering, the more you would be brutalized. Fear seared through him at the expectation of what was about to come.

What fucking game were they now going to play?

His cell door swung open and two guards entered. They roughly wrenched him up from the mattress, dragging him unceremoniously into the corridor and frogmarching him once again down to the end and into the large, windowless interrogation room. Lined up against the stark grey walls in the dim light were the remaining members of the American team, plus several Iranian prisoners closely watched by more than a dozen armed guards; Captain Cane stood dignified and upright, as did the other Americans. Looking at them strengthened Ryder's resolve to resist, but this bringing everyone together in the same room was a first and it heightened his fear.

The interrogators entered, led by a tall, middle-aged officer they had not encountered before. Positioning himself at the central table, the officer, dressed in a neat green uniform, stood for a moment before he strode over to the Americans and walked down the line, eyeing each man intently. When he reached the end, Ryder held the officer's chilling gaze before the Iranian returned to the table. Moments later he spoke directly to the commandos in perfect English. “Gentlemen, I know you clearly understand me therefore I shall not repeat what I have to say, nor shall I elaborate in any way. It will be up to you to answer your own conscience and come to what I hope will be the correct decision.” He paused to light a cigarette, drew deeply and blew smoke towards the ceiling, then continued. “We have broken your imperialist network in Tabriz. We know your purpose here was to attempt to disrupt our economy and food sources by destroying two of our most important dams. We will, however, eventually extract everything we need to know about each of you and you will confess to the world what you have attempted to do to the Iranian people.” He blew another column of smoke upwards. “You have been most stubborn in resisting so far, but we are not prepared to wait any longer.” He stared coldly at Ryder, who suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
How did they know about the dams? Had any of the others talked? If so, how much did they give away?
These questions and many others flooded Ryder's thoughts, overriding his fears.

The officer turned and nodded at the interrogators, two of whom then manhandled the nearest Iranian prisoner to the table. A small pair of bolt cutters was produced. Utter fear showed on the man's face as he struggled to resist.

Fuck! What do they intend to do with those?
Ryder felt rage and revulsion at the prospect. He wanted to turn away but was inexplicably drawn to the table where the unfortunate man's right arm had been outstretched and held with fingers splayed.

The brute wielding the cutters stood poised, the officer nodded, and he slowly moved the shiny curved blades downwards and, without hesitation, sliced off the Iranian's thumb.

A primal scream of shear agony filled the room, piercing Ryder's very soul.

The officer looked at the Americans and lingered on Ryder. “This man will continue to suffer unless you confess to the world who you are and what you intended to do.”

He remained silent but raged inside, wanting to kill this psychopathic officer.

Again the officer signalled to the interrogator wielding the cutters.

The cutters went to the index finger of the sobbing man who let out another almighty scream as that finger came off too.

“Do I have to take them all before you do what I want?”

The poor man, hand in a pool of blood, looked beseechingly at Ryder who turned away, forcing his mind to block out the scene.

The officer waited, the tortured man's gulping sobs filling the room. After a minute or two he turned again to the interrogator and nodded.

This time the cutters came down and, one by one, sliced off the remaining three fingers. With each severance, the room was filled again with nerve-shattering shrieks ending only when the officer drew his pistol with suppressor attached and put a bullet through the unfortunate man's head, splattering blood and grey matter across the table and over the floor.

Ryder screeched in protest and lunged towards the table, unable to take any more, followed seconds later by the Americans. All were beaten back mercilessly with rifle butts by the overwhelming number of guards. The smell of blood and fear filled his nostrils.

“That has set the tone nicely, don't you think?” said the officer with a cruel smile when things had settled down.

Ryder was nowhere near prepared for what happened next.

The officer, green uniform spattered in blood, strode over to the line of the six remaining Iranian prisoners, placed the pistol against the head of the nearest and pulled the trigger. He then moved to the next, and the next, and shot them too, continuing along the line in quick succession without a shred of emotion, until all were dead.

The room was now in total uproar. The remaining captives, unable to control their emotions, screamed obscenities at their tormentors whilst brutally restrained by the guards.

“Confess! Confess!” the officer shouted, rushing towards the line of Americans, ordering the guards to take Brady to the table.

Ryder's mind reeled at the horror, the dead bodies, the psychopathic interrogators, and the even more psychopathic officer now preparing to mutilate or kill an American. He would probably kill them all eventually in his frenzy, unless a confession was made. Ryder felt nausea and rage as he surveyed the carnage, smelt the blood and fear, then he finally broke.

“Stop – stop! You fucking shits; stop it!” he screamed in English.

Sudden silence, then, “Well, that is much better,” voiced the officer, breaking it, calmer now after the killing spree. “At last you have come to your senses, as I knew you would. This method always encourages men to be – how shall we say: more forthcoming? Yes, that is the term.” He smiled coldly, letting dark eyes linger on Ryder like a snake. “Now we shall talk and you will sign confessions.”

At that moment the door flew open and in strode a short, grey-haired man wearing a general's uniform. The interrogators and guards snapped to attention. The general glanced disdainfully at the blood and gore and ordered the interrogating officer to step outside the room.

Heated voices soon came from the corridor and, minutes later, the officer returned, features taut and flushed, looked angrily around the room and said, “You are to be transferred immediately to another centre. There you will tell us all we need to know and inform the world how you have attempted to violate our beloved country.” He then stormed out, followed quickly by the three other interrogators. The guards menacingly closed around the prisoners. Ryder shuddered; a further prolonged, painful time lay ahead. How much more could he take?

Not long after the ordeal in the interrogation room, Ryder and the nine Americans, together with a group of Iranian prisoners, were herded out into the compound. In the bitter November wind, Ryder dug deep to overcome his despair and resist making a break for it; reason told him it would be futile. Eventually, three large canvas-covered army trucks entered the compound and drew up alongside the shivering company. They were then hurriedly manhandled into the back of the middle vehicle already occupied by a number of other emaciated prisoners, including women. Once all tightly packed in and the tailboard bolted, the guards hurriedly dispersed into the front and rear trucks and the three vehicles left the compound, heading east.