Six am. Cool, a light breeze filtering through the streets of Tehran and reaching Zeb and Broker in their anonymous-looking Toyota.
It would get hotter, but for now, the wind from the Alborz Mountains was cooling the city.
They were parked behind a Range Rover on the quiet street that was Farahani Alley. A gated compound on their ten o’ clock. Jehangir Miri’s residence. Two armed soldiers patrolling the gate. No vehicle parked on the road near the residence.
Two cameras on the roof, at the front. Zeb checked out the white-walled building and the line of cars on the street. That one over there has two men in it. Bound to be his security people.
‘They would have noticed us arrive,’ Broker said softly.
‘Yeah.’ It didn’t worry him. Both of them were in loose clothing, white coats on their rear seats. Pharmacy workers was their cover. Employed at a local store which was part of a chain. Beth had hacked into its system, inserted their names and had printed out identity cards for them.
They were officers carrying out surprise audits on all their shops in Tehran. New to that part of the city which is why they had arrived early and the only parking space they found was on Farahani Alley.
‘You remember times like these?’
‘Many of them,’ Zeb grinned. He discreetly moved his Glock out of sight, beneath the seat as a passerby approached on the pavement and passed them.
Covert operations weren’t what they were portrayed in Hollywood. They spent most of the time on surveillance or intelligence gathering. The moments of action were few and when they happened, were explosive and finished in minutes.
‘That time in Somalia, the goat—’
‘Yeah. How we got out of that I’ll never know.’
Just the two of them, Zeb the sniper, Broker his spotter. They were to take out a warlord who was not only butchering local farmers and confiscating their lands but was also supporting terrorists.
Their target had holed up in a farm building in the middle of nowhere, along with eight men.
Zeb and Broker had taken position in the wreckage of a car three hundred meters away. Good sightline. Simple plan. Shoot the terrorists as they drove out. Surveillance had shown that the killers left their hide once a day to go to the nearest town to stock up. They drove an open top SUV and brandished their weapons openly.
Spot, shoot, exfil.
Until the stray goat had nosed in on them just as the warlord drove out and all hell had broken loose.
‘Movement,’ Broker whispered.
Zeb didn’t move, kept looking ahead, bored, stifling a yawn, as he watched the house from the corner of his eyes.
One of the armed soldiers had walked up from the gate to the door. He stood there, alert, watching the street, cradling his HK MP5.
The door opened and Jehangir Miri stepped out in plain clothes. White shirt, blue trousers, polished shoes, a lanyard around his neck with his ID card. Holstered gun at his waist.
No woman at the door. There wouldn’t be, Zeb mused, his family does not stay with him. No girlfriends on the side or prostitute visits, going by his files.
Broker fired up their ride and edged out of their parking spot as the Quds officer climbed into his ride. His backup car fell behind him as the two vehicles turned at the first left and joined Jomhouri Avenue. That was a bigger road, more traffic. Right at the lights, going slowly despite the honking of impatient drivers.
‘He’s checking for tails,’ Broker said as Zeb hunched lower in his seat.
Right at Valiasr Street, a big circle around the Supreme Leader’s office and then easing into the Presidential Administration Building.
Broker eased off the gas and searched for a parking space. Found one, sounded the horn angrily to stave off another car and slid in.
‘We wait?’
‘Uh huh,’ Zeb said and reclined his seat.
‘Talkative, aren’t you?’
Zeb didn’t reply.