Broker and Roger had a stroke of luck. They got a commercial flight out of Mehrabad which flew out soon after Mostofi’s jet had taken off.
They were dressed as business executives and carried briefcases with them.
‘You had better not photograph me like this,’ the Texan hissed as he fingered his cheap suit. ‘I have an image to maintain.’
Broker rolled his eyes, checked out the inflight menu, ordered a drink and when he had consumed it, went to sleep.
Their aircraft landed five hours later on the island and taxied to the small terminal. Roger squinted in the sunlight and donned his shades. He nudged his friend with his elbow and pointed at the military aircraft some distance away.
Nassour’s GPS transponder indicated that the Quds men had arrived forty-five minutes earlier.
The Agency operatives walked briskly through the terminal, went outside and looked around as if searching for a company car. They made a show of looking impatient. Roger made a few calls, hung up, swore and flagged a cab.
‘The terminal,’ he barked at the driver. ‘As fast as you can. We are late for a meeting.’
We are well behind them, Broker thought as the taxi sped through the streets to the Iran Oil Terminal Company’s complex. The IOTC was the holding company that operated the country’s terminals, on behalf of the NIOC.
There wasn’t much to see on the island. It had a township, a few historical ruins of interest. However, the entire economy of Kharg was based on the terminal. The majority of its population either worked in the oil industry or was supported by it.
Broker brought out his screen discreetly and brought up the tracking app.
‘They are inside,’ he told his friend as he opened up a map of the complex. There were offices, accommodation, supermarkets and hotels inside the closed compound. And then there were the pumping stations and the associated industrial equipment.
‘You realize we won’t be able to go inside,’ Roger said softly, as he nodded at the military guards at steel gates, when they approached.
‘Wait here,’ Broker told the driver and hopped out. A steady stream of traffic through the gates. A security hut where every truck, bus or car was stopped for inspection. Cameras prominently mounted, soldiers alertly standing by, their hands on their weapons.
Opposite the entrance were various establishments. Hotels, restaurants, convenience stores, internet cafes.
He went to the security hut, spoke to a guard and returned to the taxi, frowning heavily.
‘Boss wants us to inspect the perimeter,’ he told Roger in Persian. ‘There was some mix-up at the airport, which is why they couldn’t send the car. He told us to use this taxi and claim the expenses.’ He looked at the driver who was scrolling through videos on his phone. ‘We’ll need you for some more time.’
‘Yes, agha, the meter’s running.’
‘Take us around the compound wall, to where the terminals are closest.’
‘Where the ships come in, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Broker climbed inside and opened his briefcase. Brought out several pieces of equipment and a screwdriver set. Roger opened his case and handed over more gear and the two assembled a surveillance drone.
‘What did you ask over there?’ the Texan bobbed his head at the gate which was receding in the distance.
Broker grinned. ‘I asked him if they allowed tours.’
‘How do you know Mostofi will go to the loading terminals?’
‘A hunch. Everyone goes there. That place, the ships, the pumping stations, that’s the main attraction on this island.’
His hunch proved right.