The Unpredictable Read online

  Days were going by quickly, he let everything slide by, lit up by a new strength. This unusual excitement left little room for the fatigue of the hard training at the Special Activity Division. He’d asked Helson for a few days of leave, in preparation for returning to Iran right after Christmas, and Helson had, unexpectedly, granted him them without the slightest hesitation.

  Strenuous days had gone by as he endlessly repeated the various procedures that he was to follow for transmitting messages and for using certain technological devices that would allow him to communicate with the NSFS center over the airwaves. Captain Mc Gown had been satisfied with his progress, considering the short time he’d had to absorb information and training that were usually spread out over months. His preparation so far had been focused on the psychological skills necessary to withstand the immeasurable tension, the oppressive stress of an undercover mission, and to be able to control the rising pressure and fear that were never to result in panic and bewilderment.

  Vestwood had asked him to make himself available for two whole days for a practice run in which he was to prove the level of knowledge he’d reached in the theoretic training. He knew that once in action, he’d be able to do much more.

  Despite his apprehension rising as the day of his return to Iran approached, he felt driven by the thought of putting himself to the test. He believed that, unless the results were disappointing, the decision made by Vestwood or whoever had made it for him in the CIIS management wouldn’t be revoked. He was the only one who could carry out that assignment, or at least, the only one who could approach Professor Wharz and guarantee the least disturbing side effects in case of failure. And this, in the worst case scenario, might as well be to his own detriment.

  He climbed the steel escalator that would bring him back to the surface in a few seconds. He felt the cool air slapping his cheeks as soon as he stepped through the subway’s exit, making him regret shaving his week-long beard. He was supposed to meet Vestwood not far from there, in a remote area west of Milan that hadn’t yet been invaded by tall armed-cement buildings and was still lined by large fallow fields and warehouses of small factories.

  The car pulled up to the curb just as he was about to cross the street. The man in the passenger seat climbed out and approached him.

  “Good morning Mr. Avito, please get in, Mr. Vestwood is waiting for you,” he said, pointing to the car’s back door.

  They were some 500 meters away from the exact meeting place, but Nino gladly accepted the change of plans that would save him the rest of the walk in the rain and the ice-cold wind that blew from the snow-capped Alps. He opened the door and bent down to climb into the car, as the well-dressed man waited to close it behind him. Inside the vehicle it was pleasantly warm and he relaxed, taking off his ribbed blue woolen cap and undoing the buttons on his coat as the Mercedes slowly drove away. He turned to the man to his right and asked where they were headed. In the exact same moment he felt a hard object pressing into his side, he turned abruptly and saw that the guardian angel sitting next to him was pointing a Glock to his ribs.

  “What does this mean? Is this a joke?” He asked in disbelief.

  “You won’t be going to your meeting today, Mr. Avito,” the man to his right answered. “We’ve got lots of time to listen to a nice story about Iran, that you’ll be kind enough to tell us, sparing no details.”

  “Stop messing with me! As you just said, I have an important meeting that I…”

  He couldn’t finish the sentence, a violent blow to his left cheekbone made him jump in pain. He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline rising through his veins. His heartbeat quickened, and so did his breathing, as an effect of the hormonal rush. He was confused, altered, but weirdly enough not overcome by fear. He realized in surprise that his days of training had worked. He had recently acquired notions relating to functional alterations in situations of environmental stress, that were now flipping through his brain like virtual pages of a deranged ebook. He was aware that he was currently in a state that Mc Gown called “range of the Hypersenses”, in which visual and cognitive reaction times were optimal. Yes, optimal for survival.

  “Shit, Nino! What’s going on?” He thought, trying to clear his mind.

  A few minutes of silence were enough. He’d been a fool to climb into a car with someone he’d never seen before, seriously naive. How could they have known about Iran and about his meeting with Vestwood? And first of all, who were they? He wasn’t able to find a clear, logical explanation. The only answer he could give himself was that the game was over, this wasn’t the “wannabe James Bond” training that captain Mc Gown had given him anymore. It was reality, completely different and much more concrete. It was one thing to have someone tell him what might happen if he were unmasked and what treatment the people from the Iranian internal services would have in store for him; another thing entirely to live out those descriptions. His cheekbone had broken, it was bleeding, and damn was it real! Pain pumped like a bellows and the left side of his face was swelling by the minute.

  “Hypersenses”, “fact analysis”, “action”, “possible reaction”, he tried to focus on all the information he had.

  “Mc Gown docet,” he thought. “Two armed men of Middle-Eastern origins who speak perfect English, plus a third one behind the wheel, who’s probably armed as well. They are aware of the Iran situation and of my relationship with Vestwood. How much information do they have? The game has just begun, they’ll go on and squeeze as much out of me as they can.”

  He quickly considered which attitude he should hold and how he should act in that hopeless situation. He felt well aware that he was a little lamb in the jaws of a pack of wolves.

  The vehicle swerved off the paved road and its tires caused splashes in the muddy puddles that splattered onto the grass lining the dirt road, as the rain kept falling thicker and harder, making the moment even more sinister than it already was.

  He realized that the destination of that damned trip was an abandoned farmhouse, partially hidden by a row of cypresses. The car stopped in front of the old, rotting wooden door, that was slightly cracked. He felt the Glock’s barrel pressing into his left side again: the man next to him had already climbed out of the car and was forcing him to do so too. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins again, turning his stomach to cement. His shoes sank in the mud and he felt the cold water drenching his feet. The man was waiting for him outside the car; he blocked his right arm twisting it behind his back and bound his wrists with a cable tie, then he yanked his arm, pushing him towards the door of the farmhouse. Nino tried to fight the feeling of impotence and gain greater concentration. He knew that in that exact moment he didn’t have a choice, the only thing he could do was maintain a subdued attitude and obey. Acting heroic or defiant would be pure madness. A few steps away from him was a man holding a gun, another armed man was sitting in the car, and then there was “grey coat”, who kept pushing him around with powerful shoves.

  He’d learned from Mc Gown that acting fearless and seeking confrontation in such circumstances is completely foolish. The only result is to trigger the jailer’s fury and sense of almightiness. Rather, putting on a fearful and weak act is the best way to focus on important details and to be able to seize any opportunities for fulminous and unexpected action. It’s probably the only chance of survival, often denied by fate even to the most skilled.

  They stepped into a large, dark and cold room. The smell of rottenness mixed with a chemical smell, probably from manure, exploded in his nostrils as if he’d just unwillingly swallowed a spoonful of wasabi sauce.

  “Sit there,” grey coat began, a trail of condensation leaving his mouth due to the contrast in temperatures.

  He sat down on a bashed wooden chair in a corner of the room as his captor exited, leaving the other man to keep him company.

  Who knew, maybe Sara would find out, days later, that his body had been found, beaten up and with two bullets in the head, in an old farmhouse on th
e outskirts of town. Everything would end, with no apparent reason, to the disbelief and dismay of those who loved him.

  Fuck this! It wasn’t going to happen, he shouldn’t even consider it. He checked the tie on his wrists: it wasn’t too tight, and the nail sticking out of the chair’s backrest, which he could feel between the fingers of his right hand, would suffice for what he was planning to do. His well-dressed friend came back, approached him and said in a calm and steady voice:

  “Mr. Avito, I am a sensitive and educated person, so I’ll ask kindly, but just this once. What did Mr. Vestwood ask of you? What does the CIIS want from you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is the CIIS? Chris Vestwood is an old family friend that I haven’t seen in a while, that’s all. You’re making a big mistake, I don’t know what to say, believe me!” He answered, trying to be as convincing as possible.

  “Sure, Nino, today is your unlucky day,” grey coat continued, threateningly coming closer.

  The hard slap hit him on the cheek opposite the already smarting one. He rolled his eyes, pretending that the blow had been much harder than it had actually been, acting stunned.

  “Well, at least I’m symmetrical now!” He thought, feeling swollen like a beat-up boxer.

  “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. I’ll try to explain, you scumbag! Make peace with it: your life is worth less to me than the life of the chicken you ate last night. So if you can be useful to me, and give me what I want, you might have a few extra chances of surviving, otherwise you’ll just be a useless burden,” his jailer said, annoyed and arrogant. His attitude gave away the fact that he was the undisputed leader of that small gang.

  “I want all the information you’ve got as soon as I’m back, or else I’ll seriously be pissed off!” He added, leaving the room.

  Moments later, he heard him call his sidekick, who obediently reached him. Nino was alone at last and the tie quickly broke beneath the constant pressure of being rubbed against the nail. He’d been incautiously left alone. His heart rate increased; he knew that this would be his only shot. He couldn’t sit there and mull it over, he had to act now, and fast!

  He silently bolted towards the window some ten meters from him, which had no glass panes nor fixtures. With a leap he was able to climb through up to his stomach, and pushing with his foot he managed to hurl himself outside. He fell in the wet grass but got up instantly and started running towards the cypresses, which could hide his escape from the sight of his jailers. The rapid bolt released so much lactic acid that the muscles in his thighs went numb and started to harden. He made it past the trees, where a dirt road ran between a moat and a farmed field. Soaking wet, he ran like a madman, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his kidnappers in the shortest time.

  He saw the Range Rover slowly heading towards him, but the heavy rain didn’t allow him to see who was driving. He realized that it could either be his way to safety, or the end of his life on earth. He stood still, trying to figure out what awaited him, as the vehicle stopped too and the headlights flashed. Having no choice, he walked up to the car and the window on the passenger’s side rolled down.

  “Get in, Nino, you’ve had a rough day,” Vestwood started.

  Nino, shocked, opened the door and climbed in.

  “We were a bit too forceful and realistic, but it was crucial to see how you’d be able to handle the situation,” the British man stated, composed.

  “Shit, Vestwood! They nearly killed me! If I’d had the chance, I’d have cracked someone’s head open.” Nino answered, furious, now that it was all clear.

  As pissed as he was, he was glad that it had all been an act: despite his cracked cheekbone and swollen face, he was safe.

  “The lads can do their job well, they didn’t take big risks. I have to say you’ve been very clever in seizing the opportunity. The only opportunity you had. You were able to improvise, to keep panic and stress at bait, to put in practice what the Special Activity Division has been able to teach you in these few days. Yes, you made mistakes: you climbed into a car with people you didn’t know, in a place that wasn’t our meeting point, which, by the way, didn’t foresee any identification checks. It can happen to neophytes, but I hope you’ll learn from these mistakes… Making them a second time could be fatal.”

  “Fuck you anyway, Vestwood!” He snapped back, releasing the tension and fear he’d piled up in what had seemed to be the hardest moment of his life.

  “I understand. Get ready, Nino, we’re leaving in a few days,” the British man answered, looking at him as he rubbed his face drenched in sweat and rain.

  CHAPTER 9

  Milan (Italia) , 12/22/2011 6:00 P.M.

  -” The opposite of everything ” –

  Throughout the past few years he’d been waiting for something to happen, without truly being aware of it. Now, that something had arrived and zapped his life like lightning. Everything was changing at supersonic speed, in a progression of unimaginable and burdensome events.

  At the end of the two days’ full immersion with the SAD he’d returned home to Sara; the swelling and cuts on his face were well in sight and he had to make an excuse for them.

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. I had an accident as I was driving with Nish Holden down the highway to Geneva. We were pretty lucky… He’s unharmed, I’m a bit scratched, but Nish’s car is destroyed. It was a bad crash.”

  Sara was puzzled, but there were more important things to discuss that night. Nino sensed that something special was in the air. Everything was perfect, tidy and clean, she was more dressed up than usual and looking very excited.

  “I have something to tell you. It’s great!” Sara began, beaming.

  He stared at her expectantly, perceiving a subtle and pleasant tension. The moment was encased in a unique magic, as if he were suddenly a child again and his mother were revealing an unexpected surprise.

  “I’m pregnant!” She went on, bursting with joy.

  In that exact moment, he was seized by a whirlwind of overwhelming happiness. Everything that had seemed sure and certain just minutes before turned cloudy. Vestwood, Iran, the Wharzes… everything that had become his primary objective, that he perceived as the turning point in his life, was suddenly making way to enormous doubt. The newfound awareness of soon becoming a father made him question all his certainties, instilling doubt that he might have misunderstood the importance of the events that fate had presented to him.

  He wasn’t able to fully appreciate that amazing moment of joy. As he lovingly embraced her - knowing that he was also embracing his future heir - he told himself that he was a man of his word for better or for worse, and when he’d shaken Vestwood’s hand, confirming his availability and collaboration, he’d signed a non-cancellable contract. Fate had stepped on the gas and he was now traveling two thousand miles an hour in the direction he’d believed to be correct, which was turning out to be questionable to say the least.

  When he disclosed that, reluctantly, he would be leaving for Iran the day after Christmas, the endless happiness they’d been feeling was clouded, cloaked by a veil of disappointment. He felt his enthusiasm and confidence towards his mission crumble under the influence of the inebriation that came from being a father-to-be. It would be a daunting effort to leave Sara alone in Milan on Saint Stephen’s day, and even more daunting to leave his son or daughter alone for the rest of their life. He’d never even considered this, but there was a risk, and it was a high one. His son had the right to have a father, just like Nicholas Wharz, and Nino had the duty to live by his side for as long as he possibly could.

  On December 26th, 5:45 P.M., he stepped foot on Iranian ground again. This time it had been truly difficult to leave Milan with such a burden of uncontrollable and contrasting emotions, but the game was on. Throughout the whole trip, his thoughts had been on that small pulsing cell that was developing in Sara’s womb and on the incredib
le mystery of life.

  “My God, what a wonder!” He thought to himself. “There’s our immortality. Life spawning life, cells spawning cells, DNA spawning DNA, soul caressing soul. We are the miracle of life and immortality.”

  This emotional tornado was robbing him of the clarity he needed, focusing all his resources on what he was going to face in the coming days was vital in order to achieve both of his goals: doing his part in freeing the Wharzes, and coming home as soon as possible. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, or he’d have to face much worse than the brief experience in the farmhouse and his return home would be but a feeble hope.

  He deleted the SMS he’d received from an unknown number, containing the details of the ciphered Swiss bank account. He made up a name with which to hide the long string of alphanumeric data in his phone book and stepped through the arrivals gate, ready to meet the Minotaur.

  Indeed he was there, right past the sliding doors, his legs resembling two oak tree trunks rooted in the tiled floor. Bagheli greeted him with the joviality of a mummy and sparing no pleasantries. He had foreseen as much. The only words spoken were “welcome back”, as his steel face remained inexpressive. He drove him to the usual hotel, which was already wrapped in the freezing cold and deep darkness of the late afternoon.

  He was back in the room he’d left only ten days before. The circumstances had changed, not only in his psychological state but in international politics too. The embargo decided by the United Nations held an ever bolder and more brazen Iran in a grasp of deep poverty, at the expense of the commoners, while the highest political, religious and military spheres gloated in their status. The USA’s concerns on how Iran was speeding up its nuclear program, and the continuous threats made by the Iranian prime minister to Israel, had brought international tensions to levels that hadn’t been seen since the cold war. The new drive towards the construction of nuclear weapons could have been generated by the brilliant mind of Alexander Wharz: his help would certainly have brought closer Iran’s goals on the matter.