Tehran Decree (22 page)

He looked at Kazeni as the concept registered in the
unconscious part of his brain...they had changed coordinates
because the US spy apparatus would have traced then to Tehran HQ.
Undoubtedly the Supreme Leader, once again in his so called supreme
wisdom, would have been a sitting duck, should the US decide to
eliminate him. His deductive processes were working overtime-- he
was beginning to read Kazeni’s mind.

A large red brick building appeared on the left side
of the road, it was offset some twenty metres with a large
mud-baked driveway alongside. A raised concourse ran the full
length of the building, facilitating loaded and unloading of large
trailers and trucks. Kazeni pulled in to the driveway and stopped
halfway along the concourse, adjacent to a set of concrete
steps.

The other SVU’s pulled up behind each other and
followed Kazeni into the warehouse through a side door. Sharazi
dragged president Garner into the building.

It was full of second hand cars in various conditions
of decay. Someone was using a metal grinder in the midst of the
cars, with showers of sparks landed in all directions. Sharazi
stared in horror at the display and wondered how many of the old
vehicles still held deadly reservoirs of petrol.

An internal office with windows occupied one corner
of the building. Two men sat at a large desk talking and drinking
fruit juice, from a large two door refrigerator standing against
the wall. A large fan wafted the air around, assisting a small
breeze coming through a side window. The men opened the office door
and ushered the visitors in. Kazeni reeled off a string of orders
and the rest of the BIB moved back out of the office and quickly
deployed themselves around the building. Kazeni, and Shazazi sat on
a long dilapidated divan with Garner propped up between them.

Kazeni shook hands with the men and introduced
Sharazi. Both men had several days of stubble growth and wore
tattered overalls soaked with grease and oil stains.

The older of the two men stared curiously at
president Garner, whose eyes were shut, with his head down on his
chest. Finally the old man spoke in accented English.

‘So this is the great United States President...what
on earth have you done with him...the man is half dead,’ he pulled
Garner’s head back with a jerk.

‘Are you sure this is the American president?’

‘As positive as we can be...straight from the
American motorcade, and extracted directly from the presidential
limousine,' the old man laughed mockingly.

‘We have to be sure,’ he put his face close to
Garner’s, checking each hair follicle and skin blemish, looking for
telltale evidence of plastic surgery. He pulled Garner’s head
violently to the right side, and peered under the chin and neck
line, then wrenched it to the left.

‘Well he seems to be clear at least he hasn’t had any
facial procedures,’ his eyes came to rest on a small scar under the
left ear, hardly discernible, but a possible means of
identification from a good media photograph or video shot of the
American president.

A dog began barking outside the building; Kazeni
looked up in alarm.

‘I’ll have a look,’ said Sharazi reassuringly. He
made his way to the back door, moved outside, and onto a small
verandah at the back of the warehouse. A quick visual confirmed the
area was deserted -- it was a window of opportunity.

He punched the radial key on his satellite phone and
waited for a response to the Australian police number. A faint
digital purr indicated connection was in progress.

The electronic buzz stopped abruptly, static took
over, time stood still. It was agonizing waiting for an answer. The
back door abruptly bust open, and Kazeni stood in the door way,
antagonism spread across his face. Sharazi barely manage to hide
his mobile behind his back.

‘Did you see anything?’ he snapped. Sharazi raised a
half smile.

‘No, a think we scared the poor thing off,’ Kazeni
grumbled and turned to go back. Sharizi stood a little closer to
the verandah rail

‘You’d better come back into the building Habib,
we’ve got things to discuss,’ Habib gently dropped his mobile over
the side of the rail and walked slowly back into the warehouse -- a
later retrieval would have to suffice.

Chapter Forty-four

The organ in St. Marys Cathedral in central Sydney
played ‘Abide with me’ as another group of mourners entered the
central aisle. The congregation was carefully monitored by plain
clothes ASIO agents who mingled inconspicuously with the public.
Agents were carefully screened for their nondescript appearance,
and what seemed like a middle-aged obese lady, or a little old man
with a white cane, could well be a skilled ASIO watcher.

The prime minister sat to the right of the front row
of seats, his head slightly elevated, eyes fixed on the pine coffin
of former police commissioner Clement Chester. Funerals always
brought a tear to the PM’s eyes it was an unconscious reaction from
the depths of his childhood. His mother died of cancer when he was
only five years old and he could remember crying endlessly, day
after day, praying that heaven would send his mother back if he
cried long enough. It was the most traumatic thing in his life and
he still shed a tear when the last image of his mother came back to
haunt him. The cathedral organ began playing softly ‘
Jesu Joy of
Man’s’ Desiring
which only assisted his tear ducts to perform
their specialised functions.

The Coroner had given a verdict of accidental death
whilst the victim’s mind was disturbed, which wasn’t quite the same
as a planned suicide, or a planned murder for that matter. The
unnecessary dragging up of unsavoury material which may have had
serious political repercussions, as well as detrimental effects on
the reputation of the NSW and Federal police forces, was deemed
inappropriate at this time. It was the least anyone could have done
under the circumstances.

The PM thought about Chester’s messy finale and
meandered through two hymns and most of the Chester’s Eulogy --
then it happened.

His mobile phone buzzed alarmingly, the PM stood up
red faced and dashed down the aisle and out of the cathedral. He’d
forgotten to turn off the offending item, or had he, he remembered
deliberately keeping the phone on, reminding himself that he was
the prime minister, and this was another ongoing bloody crisis.

Two plain clothes men followed him at a distance as
he groped in his pocket, pulling out his annoying mobile, and
making his way to the corner of a large stone buttress.

‘Hello PM...’

‘Hello sir...Jansen here, you did ask me to give you
a buzz when I was ready...I’ve assembled a team of six SAS men and
we’re about to board the aircraft,’ the PM’s eyes lit up and he
smiled for the first time since the start of the day.

‘Excellent, you’ve made my day commander, may I now
suggest you proceed with all haste, and do bear in mind there’s a
hell of a lot riding on this. By the way, the defence minister will
be your immediate controller, he has substancial SAS experience, he
will remain in contact with you throughout by satellite phone. I
know its unconventional, but this is an unconventional foray and
the minister does have significant military experience. Also he is
in direct contact with me at all times, so we have gone to a lot of
trouble to dispense with as much red tape as possible,' he could
hear a muted rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers on the large
organ and suddenly realised that was the cue for the coffin exit
from the cathedral
.

‘I will let you go now commander. I wish you bon
voyage and good hunting,’ the PM folded his phone, breathed a much
needed sigh of relief, and walked quickly back just in time to see
the coffin being slowly carried out of the cathedral towards the
hearse. He had missed his place as chief coffin bearer.

There were a few strange looks from some of the
higher luminaries as he appeared at the side of the coffin. A
speech to the nation and part of the eulogy had gone wanting, with
the PM nowhere to be seen when he was needed. The Treasurer had to
be called in to complete the PM’s speech. He bowed his head as the
coffin passed, kissed his hand and placed it on the side of the
pine wood, then whispered to himself...
Good-bye my dear
friend
,’ and in an even fainter wisper...
‘and bloody good
riddance!'

Muscat

Several hours of fault free flying brought Jansen and
his team within sight of the middle eastern city without making a
fuel stop. After ten minutes hassle with flight controllers the
team finally landed at Muscat International The jet came in low, a
sleek white bird, her fuselage embellished from to tail with a
slick black stripe. No other insignia indicated her service
classification or nationality. She was a smart plane on the outside
but very utilitarian on the inside. A dedicated machine for the job
in hand, she could be quickly striped back to her bare metal
infrastructure for bulky cargo handling or drastic range
increase.

Jansen praised the new Dassault 7X aircraft and
applauded the Australian government for purchasing the plane for
special purposes. It was a superb machine for covert, off-the-cuff,
global missions, requiring lots of discretion. The aircraft taxied
within fifty metres of the airport buildings and came to a gentle
stop. Jansen peered at the surroundings his feelings heightened by
the obvious increase in external temperature. A cloying reaction
began to form in his stomach as he pondered what the future might
hold for them. He rubbed the window of the small sixteen seater
airport bus which delivered them to the check-in area to get a
better view of the facilities.

The team sat in the airport lounge having their first
and last beer before taking on the BIB in earnest. Jansen went to a
quite part of the bar and pressed the re-dial button on his
satellite phone which called up the defence minister.

‘We’ve arrived sir, where do we go from here?’

‘Right commander...listen carefully, while I give you
the latest satellite coordinates, courtesy of their GPS setup,’ The
minister reeled off the figures, while Jansen traced them on a
miniature map of the Muscat area.

The spot was some way out from the city centre, and
he ran his finger along 86 Street from the city to an ill defined
road called 8665 Ln, where the coordinates coalesced at the end of
a small ill defined road ending in the middle of the dessert. A
thin graduated red line ran close by, which turned out to be an oil
pipeline according to the map legend.

He muttered under his breath...’Thank god for the GPS
system, otherwise I don’t know where we’d be,’defence minister
Hayes caught the remark.

‘You can say that again commander, its pretty wild
out there, which is just as well...it will save civilian lives when
the firing starts. I would assume, that there is some sort of
building at the end of that road commander.’

‘I hope so, may be its an oasis.’

‘We should be so lucky commander...more likely a
cesspool I would say.’

‘Thanks for the coordinates sir, I think they’ll
prove most helpful’

‘Good, I’ll let you know if they change, also there
should be three hire cars parked in the airport lot with yellow
stickers on the front windscreen marked MG, courtesy of the Oman
government...you’ll find the keys at the airport reception desk --
just show the man your passport and quote the code Matilda
2233...best of luck commander.’

Jansen went back to the airport lounge, had a long
swallow of beer, then looked around at the motley team he had
chosen straight from army records. On the whole he was a good judge
of character but it strongly depended on the physical presence of
the person and their subsequent body language.

Knowing how inaccurate army records were he wondered
what sort of men he had actually taken on. One could never glean
the measure of a soldier merely from the written word of an
indifferent commanding officer. Often remarks were placed willy
nilly into the records, either for the administrative convenience
of filling up the page, or just for something to say about the
person in that particular battalion. Army records were like weather
statistics -- they were mean averages -- with mean being the
operative word. No gentle small talk, where one could pick up vital
clues as to the character of the man who made them, you were either
black or white, and very anonymous

To know a soldier one had to literally live with him
over a reasonable period of time. This was especially true in the
heat of battle and at awkward times which demanded significant
performance. One never knew if the man you stood next to was a
coward until that vital moment in time.

Jansen finished his beer, picked up the keys, and
took one last look around the airport lounge and thought about
possible future outcomes...
this could be the last he would see
of polite civilisation for some time
. A little reflection was
always helpful before heading off into battle providing it wasn’t
negative -- then it could be fatal.

He made peace with himself and wondered why he never
really made peace with god, then dismissed the insistent idea that
he must be some sort of atheist.

Nothing could be further from the truth; he had been
a good student at school, and attended all the religious knowledge
classes with the occasional attendance at Sunday school with his
peers.

It was just that the religious teachings demanded
previous assumptions like the acceptance of a supreme God, the Holy
Trinity, the Virgin Birth and many other preconceived beliefs that
were just not very scientific.

But there was a God all right, and he, she, or it,
was way beyond anything we could conjure up from simple mythology,
folklore, religion or paganism. Humans, like everything else, were
a property of the cosmos and subject to its laws; such laws could
not be waved aside for the sake of one individual -- God, or no
God.