Tehran’s metropolitan area was divided into twenty-two districts that administered Iran’s largest city and provided infrastructure and services to its thirteen million people.
There was a clear, north-south divide in the city. The northern neighborhoods, which also happened to be closer to the foothills of the Alborz Mountains were where the wealthy and the elite lived. Niavaran, Sohanak, Elahiyeh and the surrounding locales had well-maintained streets, a European feel and featured fancy cars.
The southern neighborhoods such as Darvazeh Ghar, Javadiyeh, and Nazi Abad were where the less affluent lived. Poor infrastructure and city services, higher crime, more homeless, marked them.
The central neighborhoods, were where the government offices and administrative buildings were. Bahrestan was home to the country’s parliament, the Islamic Consultative Assembly was located. Grand Bazaar, a ten-kilometer long market that sold various goods and trinkets was in the central part of the city.
Beth led the convoy as she navigated expertly through, coming in from the west, skirting the edge of the bazaar, took the Nawab Expressway, went around Bahman Park and entered Hezar Dastgah.
Through small alleys where children stopped playing and stood back to let their vehicles pass. Staring wide-eyed at the women driving, all of whom had let their hair veils slip to cover their faces. An opening that widened into a street market.
Beth rolled to a halt and parked behind a fruit truck; the other vehicles arranged in a neat line behind.
Zeb donned his shoulder holster and concealed it between his Tee and jacket. Climbed out, put on his shades and wrapped a shawl around his neck. ‘Salaam,’ he greeted a vegetable vendor and proceeded through the market sampling various wares, Beth beside him.
‘Parvez’s stall is at the far end.’ Meghan in his earpiece. The elder twin was several paces behind, buying fruit from a vendor. Zeb negotiated with a fruit seller and bought a bunch of bananas while Beth went ahead. He peeled one and bit into it, turning around casually. No armed men. No police. No one who looked threatening. Bwana and Bear, towering over the shoppers, met his gaze fleetingly and shook their heads imperceptibly. They too hadn’t detected any threats.
He finished eating and dropped the peel in a bin. Hurried to catch up with Beth who was haggling with Parvez in Farsi.
Nope, not bargaining. She’s relaying Avichai’s code, in between negotiating prices. The store-owner was young, bearded, his dark eyes impassive as he went through the to-and-fro that every seller did. He matched the photographs that Levin had sent.
The vendor got to his feet and snapped his towel at an inquisitive fly. ‘Come with me, khanom,’ he addressed her. ‘The freshest fruit is inside, to keep them away from dirt and insects.’
Khanom. Ma’am. He’s acknowledged who we are and tagged on the polite address. It was the passcode protocol that they had agreed with the Mossad Director.
They followed him inside the store, the cloying smell of farm produce filling their nostrils. The store was much larger than what it looked like from outside. A narrow corridor with shelving on either side which opened into a receiving area. A large pair of weighing scales hung from the ceiling. Notebooks and files were piled on a counter.
Parvez beckoned and led them to a smaller room which was filled with sacks of grain. He moved several of them with Bear and Bwana’s help and cleared a space in the middle of the room. He bent to the floorboards and sprang a concealed lock to open a trapdoor. A ladder went down and disappeared into the gloom.
‘Come,’ he said and disappeared into the darkness.
Zeb went first, his hand near his Glock, alert for an ambush. There wasn’t one. Parvez turned on a light when he reached the bottom, illuminating a large storage room. He went to the side wall, slid back a false panel and dragged out a crate.
Opened it and gestured at its contents with a flourish. ‘Javelins,’ he said simply.
Zeb looked at them and then at the vendor who was sporting a small smile.
‘Right in the produce market?’
‘Where else?’ Parvez laughed. ‘No one comes inside the store. The smell puts them off.’
‘How long have you been doing this?’
‘Long enough.’
Zeb nodded, not put off by the seller’s reluctance to elaborate. It was a business transaction, enabled by Mossad. Nothing more.
‘All good,’ Broker said when he had finished inspecting the weapons. ‘How do we take them out?’
‘Come at night,’ Parvez replied. ‘There’s a passage through here,’ he pointed at a rear wall. ‘That will open up in the loading docks for my store.’
He hesitated. ‘You’re planning something?’
‘Yeah,’ Zeb said, turned away and led his team out.
‘Whatever you need, let me know. I can get them. Anything for friends of our mutual friend.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything,’ the store owner promised. ‘There are lot of stock piles around the country that our friend has arranged. I can access all of them.’
Zeb nodded in thanks. He had shipped out all their daily gear with Ryker’s help. On top of that, the CIA itself had weapons and equipment they could use.
Still, it’s good to know we can get harder-to-find weapons in Tehran if we had to.