“Grenade. Left hand,” said Nathan.
Justin leveled his carbine at the man’s head.
“You don’t want me to drop this, do you?” the man asked in Russian, shaking his left hand.
Without the pin, the man’s fingers were holding the grenade’s striker lever in place. If he dropped the armed grenade, it would explode in a matter of seconds. Shrapnel from the explosion would shower the area with metal pieces. Justin and Nathan were well within the grenade’s killing range.
“What are you doing here?” asked Justin. He took a step forward, his carbine still trained on the man’s head.
“Watching your back,” the man replied. He tilted his head toward the ravine. “I saw you crossing by those white rocks and overgrown bushes about ten minutes ago. Your partner almost tripped on a tree root. You held him by the arm.” The man spoke in Russian. His tone was soft, yet firm.
Justin nodded. The man was telling the truth. He assumed the man had used a powerful binocular or a sniper’s scope, which was somewhere on the other side of the rock, out of Justin’s sight. The vantage point was a perfect place for an ambush or to provide cover.
“I stood guard, to see if someone was hot on your trail. I was told you ran into some complications.”
Justin nodded again. “So why the grenade?”
The man grinned. “The colonel sends me here to pick up two men I’ve never seen before, after they’ve gotten into trouble deep inside Iran. I’ve no idea if someone is closing in on you or if the Revolutionary Guards are giving chase. And people coming from that land are usually in a bad mood.” He repositioned his fingers around the grenade.
Justin smiled. He was beginning to like this man but wanted to make sure the man was telling him the whole truth. “I’m in a good mood. What did Colonel Movlamov tell you?”
The man let out a loud laugh. “Good trick. The Colonel’s name is Garryev. And he told me two Canadian agents need a rescue team and transport. Well, I’m the rescue team, and you’ve seen my transport. Do you trust me now?”
The Colonel shouldn’t have revealed our identities, Justin thought. He felt betrayed by Colonel Garryev. Maybe he didn’t give this man our names, just told them we’re Canadians. It’s a bit too late for a rescue team, but we’ll use your transport. And no, I don’t trust you.
“What’s your name?” Justin asked.
“Bayram. It means ‘holiday,’ as I was born on Eid Al-Adha. It’s the end of—”
“The annual pilgrimage to Mecca, I know,” replied Justin. “I’m John, and he’s Jim.” It was their cover in case their identities as Canadians became known, but not their real names. “And we should go.”
Bayram set the grenade’s pin back into its place. His fingers moved slowly, his actions clearly visible to both Justin and Nathan.
“You Canadians play baseball?” Bayram asked Nathan as he turned his head toward him.
“Yes. Why?” Nathan replied.
“Catch.” Bayram tossed the disarmed grenade at Nathan. An underarm throw with a high arch and slightly to his left.
Nathan reached and caught the grenade. He double-checked the striker triggering the firing mechanism was intact, then secured the grenade in his knapsack.
“Let’s go then,” Bayram said. He pulled up his pants and tightened his belt. He turned around and reached behind the rock he had used as a stool.
Justin exchanged a quick look with Nathan, whose pistol was still aimed at Bayram. Nathan nodded. I’ve got him, his nod told Justin.
Bayram brought up a Dragunov sniper rifle equipped with a powerful scope. In the hands of a capable marksman — and Bayram struck Justin as such a man — the Dragunov could cut down a man at the distance of half a mile. If he was being truthful, Bayram really did have their backs.
The UAZ had no air conditioning and the seats were uncomfortable, a little more than a dog-eared cushion over a metal frame. Justin took the front passenger’s seat, while Nathan sat behind him, keeping a steady eye on their driver. Bayram left the windows slightly open, so dust and grime were their constant companions.
The UAZ engine worked its magic as they headed toward Ashgabat, the Turkmen capital, about one hundred and sixty miles northwest. Justin had heard about the vehicle’s indestructability. It could drive through any terrain, and it was easy and cheap to fix any engine problems. It was often described as having the heart of tank in the body of a jeep. Bayram boasted about the many times this UAZ had saved his skin. He had driven it while taking fire in Chechnya, over a frozen lake in Siberia, and deep into the deserts of Afghanistan.
Bayram talked non-stop about nothing and everything, from domestic politics to climate change to the upcoming US elections. Justin was familiar with some of the state of affairs in the former Soviet republic after reading extensive reports while preparing and planning for the Iranian defector retrieval mission. Along with Nathan, he had arrived in Ashgabat a week ago. They had driven around the city, plotting their moves, securing a safe house, and finalizing the last details of their operation and their exit plan. Three days ago, they had taken the trip down to Akdzhadepe, less than twelve miles away from the Iranian border. They had surveyed the terrain and had gone through a few scenarios when assessing their options.
Still, it was interesting to see the Turkmen reality through the eyes of a local man, although he was a Cold War veteran and an operative of the country’s Ministry of National Security. Justin was surprised at Bayram’s insistence on democracy in a country ruled by one strongman after the other. But Bayram wanted hope and a better future for his three college-aged children and a few good years for himself when he retired. Turkmenistan remained an unstable place, ready to burst into flames at any moment.
Their trip to the capital went without any incident. They made only one stop a little over an hour south of the capital to refuel both their UAZ and their stomachs, and for Justin to use his secure satellite connection and update his boss. Justin reported to James McClain, CIS Director General of Intelligence, North Africa Division. His title was a misnomer, since his tasks — and those of his field agents — had expanded to include parts of the Middle East and Africa. The Middle East Division was gradually merging with McClain’s, and rumors had it that he would be chairing both sections.
McClain did not speculate about the people responsible for the shootout in Iran. It was not his style to draw conclusions without gathering and assessing all facts. Plus, it was neither the time nor the place to have such a serious conversation. His orders to the agents were simple and predictable: reach the capital, secure the intelligence, and leave the country.
Justin was more than happy to oblige.
Bayram dropped off Justin and Nathan ten blocks away from their safe house, a small, non-descript apartment from the Soviet times in the forested outskirts of Ashgabat. The apartment block was gray and depressing — like the overall mood of the city and the people — providing them with the much-needed obscurity for their operation. After ensuring no one was following them, they reached their apartment just as the first drops of a cold rain began to drum onto the ground.
Justin stared out of the windows of their second-story apartment. A couple of stray dogs — he found it difficult to determine their breed — huddled next to an overflowing garbage bin. He had seen the dogs every day, scrounging for scraps of rotten food. Once or twice he had left uneaten slices of pizza in their boxes when taking out the garbage. The dogs had stared at him, their eyes dripping with suspicion, their mouths dripping with saliva. They had made no move to approach him, but had run and devoured the food as soon as he had turned his back.