Vasilyev shrugged. “We will soon find out.”
Grishkov shivered. He had been relieved to see on the ticket that the train was air conditioned, which had indeed been useful during the day. Now that night had fallen, though, the temperature had plummeted with no answering heat from the vents. He rummaged through his bag, finally finding his jacket.
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, this hike will definitely feature temperature extremes. I am sure that Alina had appropriate clothing packed for our defector. When we prepare our packs for the hike, though, we will need to make sure that what she needs ends up either on her back or one of ours.”
Grishkov held up the brochure he’d been reading, or more accurately examining the photos, since he didn’t read Farsi.
“This was in our briefing papers. What does it have to do with our mission?”
Vasilyev smiled. “With luck, nothing. It is for the Teppe Hasanlu, ruins dating back to 6,000 BC. It’s the reason we would give for going to Naqadeh and renting a car, if anyone asked. Plenty of tourists visit there, and it’s about seven kilometers outside Naqadeh. For this train trip, though, we’ll just say we’re meeting a business contact in Mahabad. It’s a decent size city of about one hundred seventy thousand people, so we wouldn’t be the only foreign businessmen there.”
Grishkov frowned. “One last question. Isn’t our being in a car along with two Iranians going to attract attention?”
Vasilyev nodded. “A fair point. First, remember that the old USSR actually bordered Iran, and the mix of people that resulted helps explain why both of us could pass for Iranian, at least through a car window. The local clothes
Alina put into the trunk of the cab in Tehran for us to wear on this trip didn’t hurt either.”
Vasilyev paused. “Of course, as soon as either of us opens our mouth any Iranian will know we are foreigners, since my Farsi is far from accent-free.
However, we Russians are far more welcome here than you might guess. Our friends at Rosoboronexport have been selling the Iranians weapons for decades, and we are one of the few countries to have kept up good relations after the Revolution. Two Russian businessmen, their Iranian contact and his wife decide to visit Iran’s cultural treasures? Odd, maybe, but not unbelievable.”
Grishkov grunted. “But we’re staying away from the defector and her Iranian escort until we have to travel together.”
Vasilyev grinned. “Well, yes. No need to push our luck. For this train trip, they have papers showing they plan to visit the Mirza Rasul baths in Mahabad, which has nothing to do with us or any documents we carry.”
Grishkov nodded, and then asked, "What did you pass to Alina at the cafe?
I know you well enough to know you weren't holding hands because you're planning to date her."
Vasilyev laughed and slapped his knee, and replied, "Excellent! I'd been wondering whether you were paying attention. That was the USB drive with the names of dead Shi'a from the Eastern Province. I promised to get it to Moscow, and so was simply keeping my promise."
Grishkov grunted, and shook his head. "Do you think anyone in Moscow really cares?"
Vasilyev shrugged. "Perhaps not. But in this business, you never know what information will be useful, perhaps in trade. It could be that someone else cares, after all."
They could both hear the door to their train car slam open and closed, and a few seconds later the door to their compartment flew open, revealing a scowling train security guard.
"Papers,” the guard growled in Farsi, thrusting his right hand forward.
Vasilyev and Grishkov mutely handed over their passports. After glancing at the covers, and then opening them to see that the photos matched the two men in front of him, the guard visibly softened.
Handing back the passports, the guard said in Farsi, “You are welcome in Iran. Enjoy your trip.”
Vasilyev and Grishkov both nodded and smiled, but said nothing. The guard next moved on to the defector’s compartment next door, leaving their door ajar.
Grishkov raised his eyebrows and whispered, “It appears you were right about Iranians liking Russians.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “I didn’t say all Iranians. But I’m betting you have Rosoboronexport to thank for that happy exchange.”
Grishkov and Vasilyev could both hear the guard requesting papers again, but could not clearly hear the exchange that followed. Within a few moments, it was clear from the guard’s angry tone that something was wrong.
Vasilyev moved silently through the door, listening intently to the exchange. Something had provoked the guard’s suspicions, and he could see an Iranian woman in the compartment holding her hands over her veiled face and sobbing. The guard reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder.
Vasilyev shot the guard twice with his silenced pistol, and he crumpled forward without a sound. Vasilyev grabbed him before he hit the floor and quietly told the Iranian man he could now see sitting across from the woman, “Help me get him inside.”
The man was clearly shocked by what had happened, but quickly moved forward to help. Simultaneously Grishkov appeared in the doorway, and quickly closed it behind him.
Vasilyev turned to Grishkov and whispered, “We have to get rid of the body, but if we just dump it off the train it will probably be discovered before we reach Mahabad. Ideas?”
To his surprise the voice answering Vasilyev was not Grishkov’s, but that of the Iranian man now gingerly holding the guard’s body sitting upright next to him.
“We are coming up to the Zarrineh River. If we hurry, we can have the body ready to throw off the trestle and with luck into the water below. That should buy us some time. It will take two of us to get him out of the compartment.”
Vasilyev nodded, and gestured to Grishkov to help. Then Vasilyev turned to the Iranian man and hissed, “Keep her quiet.”
Grishkov glanced at the woman who sat as still as a statue, evidently in shock. He knew Vasilyev was right, though. She could start screaming at any second.
With some difficulty, Vasilyev and Grishkov maneuvered the guard’s body through the door of the compartment, and out the door of the car into the small metal platform connecting the two train cars. A nearly full moon cooperated with a bend in the track to show them an oncoming trestle about a kilometer ahead.
Vasilyev sighed and muttered, “About time we had a break.” He grabbed the guard’s shoulders and Grishkov grabbed his legs, and they began to swing the body back and forth. By the time the train reached the trestle they had built up plenty of momentum, and let the body go. It disappeared over the side of the trestle, but it was impossible to see whether the body had fallen in the water or instead on the riverbank.
As they walked back into the train car, Grishkov whispered, “A good thing there wasn’t much blood.”
Vasilyev nodded. “A combination of subsonic ammo and knowing where to shoot.”
They walked directly to the compartment with the defector and her escort.
Both were sitting silent and motionless as Vasilyev and Grishkov entered, closing the door behind them.
Vasilyev pointed at himself and said his name, and then Grishkov did the same. The Iranian man nodded and said, “Esmail.” After a pause, the woman pulled back her veil and said shakily, “Neda.”
Vasilyev turned to Esmail. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
Esmail shrugged. “The guard asked for our papers, looked at them and handed them back. He asked me why we were going to Mahabad, and I told him. Then, he asked Neda the same thing, and she said nothing.”
“I just froze,” Neda whispered.
“He kept asking her over and over, getting angrier each time she didn’t reply. That’s when he reached for his radio. You know the rest,” Esmail said.