Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (19 page)

We continued walking away from the base in a southerly direction.

I asked the tall one, “Where are you taking me?”

He merely gestured to me to continue walking with an
aloof nod of his head. Was I to be interrogated or summarily executed?

CHAPTER 24 – THE GAUNTLET OF IGNOMINY.

We walked a little further and came around a turn in the valley and saw a row of parked vehicles on our right, consisting of jeeps a couple of pick up trucks and some 4WDs’ – one of which we got in to. I was in the back handcuffed with guards sitting either side of me. The tall one was in the front passenger seat and the third guard sat next to him in the driver’s seat. The silence of the valley here at this time of the night was broken as the engine was switched on and the headlights came on. No one said a word. It was as if they knew my fate and that there was nothing left to be said. I felt like an animal being taken to an abattoir. The vehicle swung round and drove at speed across the valley floor until it approached the North West Pass. We then slowed down in order to turn right on to its black tarmacked surface and then built up speed and headed south. I noted with fortitude that outnumbered 4 to 1 and handcuffed there was not much I could do. My one consolation was that whatever happened to me our mission had been fulfilled; and many of the rascals who had been gawping at me as I came out of the base would be surrounded by 70 virgins in heaven - if you believe in such things, rather than Gulbador Hekmatiar’s well worn whores.

After having snaked along the North West Pass for several minutes, it soon became apparent that we had left the Bactria Valley, as evinced by the flat land either side of us. After a while the scenery changed again. I strained to make it out in the darkness as we sped on; and then I realised what it was – the gorge through which the North West Pass ran before it met the Highway that led to Persia. This must be the Haidar Gorge that Mueller and Aziz had been sent to dynamite. Dramatically, there on either side of the road were high walls in close proximity and by the left side of the road running parallel to it I could hear the gushing of a river, of which I caught a glimpse.

After a while we embarked on a newer road on our left; it was a broad two lane highway. Based on the maps I had seen and the Major’s briefings it was the Highway leading to the border. Were we going back to Persia? Given the distance we had driven - it seemed a long way to go just to put a bullet into me. They must be taking me to a place of captivity and interrogation. With these thoughts weighing down upon me a sense of utter fatigue overtook me and I closed my eyes. I had been living outdoors - camping for days; riding horses; eating abysmal food; being hunted; killing those who would kill me; constantly being on the alert; stumbling over rough terrain; having to contend with the heat dust and lack of running water – I hadn’t had a bath since leaving Kushanbay and now to top it all I was a prisoner of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. It seemed my luck had run out. Just as these thoughts of self pity consumed me, we abruptly slowed down and I opened my eyes to see why. We were approaching a side road on our right up ahead. The map the Major had shown us did not contain this road. Was the map just out of date or had this road only recently and surreptitiously been built? My captors seemed to bestir themselves, heralding arrival at our destination. We must still be in Azakistan, for we had not crossed the border.

We turned into this narrow but well tended road and slowly proceeded along it. Up ahead I could see some high neat hedgerows either side of this single lane road, they would not be naturally occurring here. How incongruous they looked in this barren and remote location. Just on the other side of the hedgerows I could see the top of a building. My curiosity had quickly replaced my tiredness. As we passed the hedgerows a large three storey building that looked as if it belonged to a cheap hotel chain came into view a little distant ahead. The space in front of this building had several vehicles neatly parked to one side. The driver brought the 4WD to a gentle stop as he parked and switched the engine off. My captors hauled me out and some lights came on, both in the building and on its exterior wall. One of the guards held my arm and marched me towards the entrance, as he did so I noticed that one of the parked vehicles was a black Mercedes. I was convinced that I had seen Anastasia and Zhukov get into it earlier when I observed them at Iskandar’s Mouth.

The front door opened and a couple of guards greeted my captors with pleasantries and then turned to me with a look of thinly disguised contempt. I was led into the building. The tall one consulted with these two guards; after a moment they walked me down some stairs. They lead me into the basement consisting of a long corridor; it was clear that few people came down here judging by the dust and stale air. It was poorly lit. We walked along this corridor past many doors until one of the guards stopped to unlock the door in front of him. After turning the key in the lock he gave it a shove with his shoulder and flung it open; he flicked the switch and a naked light bulb came on, which only very dimly lit the room. He then stood aside whilst the other guard removed my handcuffs. I was then immediately shoved into this room. I then heard the door being shut violently and the sound of the key turning. My eyes adjusted to my dimly illuminated cell. There were no windows, it was a fairly small room, at one end of which there were pieces of old, dusty and broken furniture piled up against the wall; the long wall on my left consisted of a series of shelves attached to the wall – these contained bits of wood and generally assorted junk. I was in the Maintenance room – the workmen’s room! Oh the ignominy of it all I sighed.

I stood up and tried the door handle, it was locked. I tried forcing the door but to no avail. I checked the time; it was now 01.23hrs. When the C4 exploded my captors would correctly conclude that I had a hand in it – and would quite naturally want to exact retribution. It was therefore imperative that I should try and escape before that happened! I rummaged amongst the contents of the room but found nothing that would be of use in escaping.

Suddenly I had a glorious realisation! I felt about me to reassure myself that I still had them – I did! Eureka! With everything that had happened to me I’d completely forgotten.....I still had my weapons; my Glock and my knife; and of course my tracking device. I got them out; checked them and put them back: my Glock inside my left calf attached by holster; my knife inside my right boot and my Tracker around my waist inside a money belt containing my Passport and credit card. The Persians had been quite remiss; they had searched my backpack but omitted to search me - allowing myself to appear the pathetic and unthreatening figure when they captured me, may have caused their oversight. However, the fact remained that I was still a captive. I could try and shoot the lock and escape, but the sound of my shots would alert every Persian and my single Glock could not be expected to out shoot their machine guns. My knife was too broad to unpick the lock. My feeling of joy at realising that I still had my weapons was instantly replaced with anger and frustration. I sank down on to the floor and rested my back against the wall and momentarily buried my head in my hands. After a moment I looked up and chastised myself - this was no way to behave if I wanted to escape!

Just then I heard a key in the lock and stood up in anticipation. The door opened to reveal three of my captors. They gestured for me to leave the room and join them in the corridor. We then proceeded; the jailer at the head, and both guards behind me. We went upstairs and from there we took another corridor before taking a staircase up to the second floor. Here it was brightly lit and clean, with what appeared to be a newly laid carpet. It was like any corridor in any hotel. We then turned left into another corridor, in what was clearly another wing of this building. I could see that one of the doors was open and there was another Persian standing outside it facing us expectantly. He stood aside in order to allow me to enter. The room contained a table in the middle with a single chair on the near side and another two chairs on the far side. There was a small table against the wall in the far corner containing some cups and a jug; but there was no window or any other furniture. So I was to be interrogated! The fact that they were prepared to do this now; just after 2o’clock in the morning seemed to speak of the urgency with which they regarded me. If they only knew about the C4 they would realise that such urgency was well founded!

They bade me sit in the single chair. After a moment I noticed that the guards by the door had suddenly stopped chatting and stood to attention. Someone was coming, and just then they saluted. This heralded the arrival of three men: the first I realised to my astonishment and horror was the man whom the previous day the Major had identified as Mehrab Rostami; the second was the tall one with whom I had travelled in the 4WD – they both sat on the chairs on the other side of the table to me. Finally a big burly, bearded brute stood against the wall on my left and folded his arms. Rostami wore a cream coloured parka jacket; he was in his fifties, of medium build with a receding hairline; he had a handsome face, an aquiline nose, piercing turquoise eyes; and a neatly trimmed beard. It probably did not bode well for me that Rostami was here; surely he had subordinates whom he could have sent to interrogate me. The Major mentioned that he was cruel and ruthless. Shrewd and cunning too no doubt! His presence thus distinctly discomforted me. Another guard shut the door and stood behind me. My innards tightened and I felt a cold sweat of fear. I was trapped with no way out!

CHAPTER 25 – GAMES, INDISCRETION AND MEGLOMANIA.

There was a tense silence. No one said a word. Rostami got out a packet of cigarettes very slowly and deliberately, took out a cigarette and tapped one end of it on the table three times, before putting it between his lips. At this point, as if by custom, the burly guard strode forward and produced a cigarette lighter; which he flicked open, ignited and then held out deferentially and thus ignited Rostami’s cigarette. He inhaled and then removed the cigarette from his lips, tilted his head a fraction upwards and nonchalantly, slowly and luxuriantly exhaled a cloud of smoke above his head in supreme self satisfaction. Everyone watched as the strangely perfumed smoke rose to the ceiling, almost mesmeric in its gyrations and its intoxicating allure.

“English?” he asked, after awhile, raising his eyebrows to emphasis his question.

“Yes,” I replied.

He tapped his cigarette over his ash tray, before returning his gaze toward me.

“What is your name?” his English was good, despite being accented. I would guess that he had spent several years abroad in an English speaking country.

“Willoughby,” I replied, “Damian Willoughby.”

“Mr Willoughby.....what were you doing in that place where you were found?”

“I got lost,” I lied.

His face was expressionless, “Where were you hoping to go?”

Thinking on the spot and looking at my inquisitor I said, “Pakistan...I’m on my way to India.” He raised his eyebrows for a second as if he found my answer bemusing. I was convinced that he was a trained interrogator.
There was something forensic in his manner, precise, intelligent and systematic. He was laying a trap, filing away each of my answers, ready to quote them back at me, if I should contradict and thus condemn myself.

“Where and when did you enter Azakistan Mr Willoughby?” he asked with cool detachment.

I decided that my story would be that I was an eccentric masochistic Englishman who was travelling through Central Asia on foot, on his way to India for his own amusement.

“It was yesterday,” I said confidently, “I’m afraid I can’t recall the place where I entered, or the time as it was at an unmarked spot.”

“Where are your possessions? You do not expect me to believe that you are walking in Central Asia with no baggage?” he asked with a degree of derision.

Good point thinks I; realising a quick riposte was called for.

“You’re quite right. When I was climbing down the valley I slipped and fell a few metres and my larger backpack fell away. I must have hit my head and become disorientated. I’ve had a horrible headache all afternoon and must have walked on without it,” I explained and then I decided on the spur of the moment to get in questions of my own “Excuse me, but who are you? And why have I been detained? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Rostami gave a little sinister smirk as if he admired my boldness. The others may not have spoken English but they understood the defiant intonation with which I had spoken. One gave a cough of incredulity and the Tall man shook his head as if he could barely credit his ears.

Rostami sat up somewhat straighter in his chair rising to the challenge, “My name is Colonel Mehrab Rostami. I’m in charge here,” he said with weary pride as if he thought it were something he felt I should have known, “....and this is Lieutenant Pahlavi,” indicating the man sitting next to him, whom I had hitherto referred to as the Tall one, “You have been detained because you were in a highly sensitive area.”

“Now that we’ve been introduced Colonel may I have a drink of water and whatever other kindness you care to give me?” I requested, wanting to appeal to his sense of Persian hospitality. Rostami instructed the burly guard, who then poured me a cup of water and set it down before me. I sipped - it was at room temperature. I drank two cups quenching my thirst, after which the questioning resumed.