Reza-Sharpe

By Bob Hyslop

1959 The 6th Jonas Forbes Thriller
This is set in 1959 London when the Shah of Iran is paying a state visit to Britain. However, the Shah has a glut of enemies both inside and outside his country – including liberals, religious fanatics and communists. Jonas Forbes is hired to help protect the Shah during the visit to Britain, along with Tim Ripley (MI5), Jack Sharpe (MI6) and the police. It soon becomes clear that cooperation between these would-be protectors of the Shah does have its limits.
Even so, the enemy itself is hampered by internal rivalries with differing ideas of what sort of Iran will take over from the Pahlevi dynasty. The obvious threat to the Shah comes from a religious group led by Youness Ghasemi, but an attempt by the police to complete a pre-emptive strike is bungled and the group go into hiding. Danger also comes from the exiled Tudeh Party, but are they merely talking revolution encouraged by the USSR – or is it China?. The Shah’s safety is secure in the hands of Savak, the notorious secret police – or do events within the Iranian Embassy show that to be a fallacy?
Jonas tries to secure cooperation with Savak through Reza Karimidad but neither trust the other. Jack Sharpe spots Jalal Qazwini, an assassin long on the run from Savak, but then he disappears, clearly with murder on his agenda. People are being exploited on all sides, perhaps as a distraction from the real threat: somebody is using Youness Ghasemi as a stalking-horse to mislead those protecting the Shah; others, both Iranian and British, are dragged into open acts against the Shah. Jack and Jalal must settle a half-forgotten battle of long ago and Jonas must unmask the arch-manipulator who aims to kill the Shah, but why?.
Historical research underlies a thriller set against an often overlooked incident in the relationship between two political systems undergoing change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hyslop
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957369429

Bob Hyslop

I am a retired teacher, living near Chichester, Sussex, UK. I am married with one daughter and two grandsons. Apart from writing my main hobbies are Family History, Music (all kinds) and playing the guitar. I have published four historical novels under different names which, you may find, still in print. I should point out that I wrote for my OWN enjoyment with the hope that others might also enjoy my books. What SERIOUSLY undermines my sales is my reluctance to be involved in social media. The details of my email account proves I am no recluse: I just focus on the negative sides of social media and so avoid them. However, you can contact me via my blog site re' my books and I'd welcome your questions and comments. I promise to check for them regularly.

Book preview

Reza-Sharpe

BOB HYSLOP

'There is a tide in the affairs of men.

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.'

(William Shakespeare: 'Julius Caesar' 4, iii, 218)

‘The Jonas Forbes Saga’: Vol. 6

Published by Cuthan Books (http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/ )

Copyright 2013 Bob Hyslop

The right of Bob Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 9780957369429

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For those who have 'greatness thrust upon them'.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 HONING AND STROPPING

CHAPTER 2 PREPARING THE FACE

CHAPTER 3 APPLYING THE SOAP

CHAPTER 4 GRIPPING THE RAZOR

CHAPTER 5 STRETCHING THE SKIN

CHAPTER 6 RAZOR TOUCHES SKIN

CHAPTER 7 BLOOD

CHAPTER 8 CLEANING UP

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

The pig must die!

'Along with the sow and the piglets?"

Only if they get in the way. A practised hand was discussing with his apprentice plans for the future but, by that response, betrayed why he was sometimes called 'The Poet' even though he clamoured for the title of 'The Butcher'.

They were seated in one of the tiny cafes which littered Soho in London and the month was April 1959. This establishment was a Turkish one and had been chosen because, until it came alive almost at the end of the day, they were sure of no interruption. The proprietor, whose parents had amazingly named him Abdul-Hamid after the last Sultan, was a fat, lazy individual who’d slap down on to a greasy square of plastic whatever customers ordered during the day. Then he’d install his bulk by the sole means of exit from his pride and joy and challenge anybody who might be considering an exit without paying full payment PLUS a tip for the service.

It wasn't a particularly cold day but both men, seated towards the rear of the cafe, were muffled up as if Jack Frost was ready to launch a lightning-strike despite the forecast of a fine day. Abdul-Hamid gazed across at his sole customers and sneered inwardly. Iranians! Why didn't they join the rest of their kind in the couple of equally insalubrious establishments somewhere else in London? He didn't like Iranians but then he didn't like most races, including his own. His principles were quite simple: the world is a jungle so don't trust anybody, don't help anybody and always watch your back. That had managed to reduce drastically his number of social acquaintances plus his count of friends to the fingers on one hand and his sole love in life to his daughter, Yasmin. Her mother had coughed out her existence in an unexpected act of betrayal weeks after her birth and left Abdul-Hamid to raise the girl by himself.

'The Butcher' glanced up and noticed the stare of the proprietor. He kicked his companion under the battered table and dragged himself to his feet. His companion copied him, even to the extent of his shifty steps, as he made for the exit. At the barrier formed by Abdul-Hamid's foot he thrust out a ten-shilling note into the fat man's hands.

Abdul-Hamid pocketed the generous payment but, without any thought of offering change, thrust out his open hand as he withdrew his foot. Tip!

Note the voice lacked any innuendo of a question mark, a sign of deference to an inferior breed, but all the Turk received in response was the two-fingered gesture which any immigrant into the United Kingdom quickly came to know. Neither man had time or distance to hear what were clearly not the blessings of Allah murmured by Abdul--Hamid as they made their way towards Goodge Street Station.

&&&

CHAPTER 1 HONING AND STROPPING

Tim Ripley nodded carefully. He had a nasty feeling where this was going and didn't like the idea of following on like any good dog. He was disturbed by the absence of his chief, Sir Dick White. Surely the Head of MI6 should be present when the Permanent Under-Secretary of the Foreign Office started fishing for support.

Sir Frederick Robert Hoyer noticed the silence and stared at the figure in front of him. Sometimes he almost envied his predecessor; people just seemed to jump around more when Sir Ivone Kirkpatrick cracked the whip. For example, Sir Dick White should have been here and he suspected the Head of MI6 was practising a diplomatic absence, in this case that of a prior engagement. It didn't matter; once Ripley here had agreed to play ball, they could squeeze White until he joined in the game. Game? Somehow he bracketed that term with the lost world of the Raj and the winding tales of Rudyard Kipling. No; that wasn't the word when a valuable member of the Service had placed his life on the line and it was time to help him out.

Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlevi is an old friend of the United Kingdom. Now was that strictly true? Iran had been a bit too prone to talk to Nazi Germany after British forces had been driven out of Dunkirk in 1940. When the Anglo-Soviet forces ousted the Shah in September 1941 they'd been tempted to get rid of the dynasty but instead stuck young Mohammed Reza on his father's throne. He SHOULD have known his place and been a cooperative ruler of a 'friendly power', but Anglo-Iranian relations hadn't been easy for some years. Tim recalled listening to Kermit Roosevelt II describing the mess in 1953 which had been described as a 'counter-coup' by Kermit and had led to the overthrow of Mossadegh, no friend of the West, and the preservation of the Pahlevi dynasty. But don't expect gratitude from a ruler priding himself on being a successor to a dynasty which ruled an empire when Britons still hadn't learned to cover themselves with woad to greet the legions of Julius Caesar.

Suddenly Tim felt his mind had been wandering and had missed out what had just been said. Sir Frederick Robert Hoyer abruptly stopped his monologue, only too aware of the surrounding silence. Were his words falling on deaf ears? Cat got your tongue, Ripley? Got your mind on better things? Speak up, you bloody Sphinx!

Where did that come from? Had the Permanent Under-Secretary been dining out with his predecessor, currently practising his management skills with the ITA? Now Tim knew exactly where this verbal battery was heading, Jonas Forbes. In some ways those positioned above him within that faceless structure labelled as 'Whitehall' by the press considered him to be some sort of 'minder' for Jonas, as if anybody outside of an asylum would take on that thankless task.

Sorry, Sir Frederick, my mind had been drawn back to Anglo-Iranian relations a few years ago.

Well, let your mind bloody well canter back to the present and, as long as that doesn't over-stretch your abilities, to the future. There was a brief moment for Tim to reorganise his mind and to register the reproof, whether under 'REMEMBER' or 'FORGET' as yet undetermined, before Sir Frederick continued.

In three weeks' time - on Tuesday 5 May - the Shah will arrive for a State Visit to this country and he will leave on Friday 8 May. Four days, Ripley, four days. Just enough for your abilities to handle, I trust. We do not want any trouble while he's here.

Tim Ripley found an oversize chunk of his mind concentrating on Sir Frederick's large ears, resembling those of a pixie remembered from his infancy, and his large eyes, utterly failing to convey the venom required at this juncture. The man was too used to oiling his way through the corridors of power, in Washington and Bonn, to be effective in the 'filing-down' section of the Whitehall machine. This resulted in an unfortunate comment.

Such as awkward crowds waving 'GO HOME' placards - like when B & K came in 1956?

Don't be difficult, Ripley. Sir Frederick sounded like Tim's old teacher in Elementary School telling him off - and that had gone in one ear and out the other without leaving a trace. The Shah is a FRIEND of this country, not some new fellow trying to push his way in through a half-open door.

But I don't see -

Do not interrupt, Ripley. Know your place, that's the first rule for getting on here, isn't it? Underlings were coming to realise that several years serving in Germany, both during the Third Reich and its successors, had rubbed off certain mannerisms on to their boss. But mannerisms they remained, like the performance of an actor on stage.

Indeed, it is, thought Tim Ripley, but that chiefly applies to those at the top, products of the public school system.

Yes, sir... Sorry, sir.

Good lad! Tim's temporary aberration had been dismissed. Now I'm leaving to others problems such as the rent-a-mob tour which the normal chaps in blue can handle. Pause for effect, none taken. I'm not sure why this visit has landed up on my desk and so, Ripley, it is being transferred to yours.

Certainly, Sir Frederick. Tim knew when to be subservient, like any servant of HM, and just as the reference to something in Sir Ivone's time had been a minor act of insubordination completely missed, he hoped this would also be true, after making it. But why is he coming?

Why do any of the world's leaders tour the sights of other countries? I'm sure some of our colleagues on the Left, Sir Frederick sniffed as if to announce his feelings about that small, but occasionally vocal, group within the 'Service', would think it's just hoping to get a few days’ rest from the brickbats in their own countries. Such an idea was dismissed by a firm blink of the eyes. But I believe they come to further relations between their countries and our own.

Isn't the Shah a bit suspect in that quarter, sir?

Between ourselves, Ripley, his Savak Security Police haven't been around long but they've already climbed well up the list of the world's murderous tools of oppression. Was Sir Frederick expressing a personal opinion? Tim hoped not because if you followed the line given, you might find yourself hung out to dry while the Minister was hauled back in by his political masters. Sir Frederick appeared to have noticed his hesitation. Ignore my own PRIVATE musings, Ripley, but we are in the area I want you to concentrate on.

You mean we know somebody's out to get rid of him while he's HM's guest?

Spot on, Ripley! There was almost a hint of physical congratulations in the sparkle which flashed in, and out, of Sir Frederick's eyes. Now Tim was certain his apprehension regarding Forbes had been correct. I've had the nudge from Selwyn, who had the wink from Harold I'd have you know, that we need someone on the outside to keep his eye on things which are not sufficiently on the inside to be safe...make sure everything runs smoothly; that sort of thing. Here we go again. Sir Frederick's habit of referring to HIS superiors by their forenames was a non-too-subtle attempt to elevate himself into their ranks in the eyes of underlings. He'd probably discussed policy implementation with John Selwyn Brooke Lloyd who'd been British Foreign Secretary for nearly four years and thereby reached the summit of his career perhaps, whatever he might think. As for Maurice Harold Macmillan, who'd been British Prime Minister for almost two years and had succeeded in digging the country out of that hole known as the Suez Crisis, Tim doubted if the Under-Secretary had enjoyed more than five minutes’ conversation with him since both had been put ‘in post', to use the favoured cliché.

You ARE talking about a threat to the Shah, aren't you, sir?

We can't let anything happen to our guest, can we?... So we need someone good at knocking out threats hidden away in awkward places... keeping everything hush-hush. A pause - like the silence before everything fell apart. Someone, according to Sir Ivone, like your pal, Forbes. Sir Frederick glared at Tim Ripley daring him to counter the logic.

You missed out the 'someone expendable' when you produced that list of requirements, thought Tim Ripley but said nothing. He knew that, despite successes over the last three years, Jonas Forbes had disturbed too many Establishment figures in Whitehall and had acquired for some that pair of horns which defined a bête-noire.

You may have a point there, sir, Tim found himself saying. Isn't it wonderful how an underling can lick any part of a superior while convincing himself he’s acting for the best?

I thought you'd see that, Tim. Sir Frederick positively beamed, relieved how advice, possessing the Sir Ivone trademark, had helped smooth out problems. The use of 'Tim' betrayed the relief, the crocodile smile stamped the problem as firmly in the out--tray. Just slip along and have a word with Mabel, won't you. She's got all the details. A pause as the good dog didn't seek immediate exit. Now, off you go... No time to waste! Sir Frederick reached for a document - it didn't matter what it was - to break off eye contact.

Tim retreated towards the door, wondering why he hadn't been given thirty pieces of silver.

&&&

I promise this is different to what you’ve had thrown at you in the recent past. There’d been a pause as if the speaker wanted to underline those words in order to prevent a charge of Misrepresentation. There’s no desert…. And no Caribbean heat ……. No Spanish ……. No Sir Jeremy. Had that last promise been the clincher? If he’d believed that then he’d been a much bigger fool than even he took himself to be.

How much more relevant could there be what from the recent past you’ve missed out, Tim? The handsome features produced a dismissive smile more in keeping with an embodiment of the ancien regime than of a private detective whose business never quite fully clambered out of the Slough of Despond. Two assignments which had been left out were the rush through France with that Iraqi bastard, Prince Abdullah, and the B & K imbroglio involving the tragic ends of 'Buster' Crabbe and, even more, that of Natasha Rykov. Jonas already had a nasty feeling that what Tim had in mind would be all too like either of them.

It's here in Britain - and no trains or warships. So the little runt had read his file. What had it said about Natasha? Why didn't he get on with it? It's protecting Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlevi.

There it was, blunt as could be. The word 'Shah' meant Iran and, for Jonas, Iran might as well equal Iraq and that meant... He didn't want to go there!

Hasn't he got his own security men?

Yes, but... We're not too sure about some of them.

That sounds promising. Do I just stick my head up and see who takes a shot?

Tim Ripley had known Jonas Forbes for over two years so he rode out that gibe with ease. Not that simple - but it all goes to show what a lucky bastard you really are.

What does? The fact I'm not dead? Now Jonas was in full retreat, chased back into the cage by a flurry of £ signs.

I'd guess the answer to that one would be, ' Yes'. The door was clanged shut.

The smugness of that comment almost floored Jonas. 'Almost' because he did consider himself a lucky individual. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve it but he'd certainly had more than his share of luck over the last few years when, to use a slightly inaccurate term, he'd been working as an 'Enquiry Agent'. Why inaccurate? Well if you think an Enquiry Agent, Private Detective, Gumshoe, or any term you like, should spend most of his time wandering the streets, tapping on doors (immediately slammed in his face) or ringing telephones (instantly slammed down), then Jonas wasn't one of those. Since leaving the army about six years before he'd exercised with a certain degree of success those talents which had elevated him from the ranks to officer during the Korean War. What were those talents? Bravery, Recklessness, toughness, stubbornness, a range of fighting skills and, above all, ruthlessness. Just the stuff to get admiration in the military and condemnation in the civilian world. Which explains why he seemed to be picking up many more of the 'shit-jobs' than his peers and this had the makings of being one of them in capital letters.

You'll have to take better care of me than you did in '56.

Tim dismissed that charge as being directed towards himself and thought that, if it applied to the UK Foreign Office, it wouldn't demand too much. At least Sir Jeremy Smith had been put out to grass and that made matters much easier. He made a mental note to find out what exactly had happened to Jonas to make him say that. He’d not realised the seed of the resentment blossoming in the sands of Egypt had been planted in the back-streets of Portsmouth, months before Tim Ripley had come on the scene.

In the meantime, the MI6 man had two problems. How much of the truth should he tell Jonas and how far should he BEND that commodity? Of course, he regarded himself as a friend of the tall man lounging in a battered chair behind an untidy desk in a run-down office, with a guardian-angel probably listening to every word from her office next door. But then he was also a member of MI6, a servant of Her Sovereign Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, and, most importantly, his activities were now overseen by Sir Frederick Robert Hoyer, who was much easier to work with than Sir Ivone Kirkpatrick. On the other hand, his immediate boss was Sir Dick White who, if anything, had grown cagier and more slippery (can both attributes grow together?) over the last couple of years.

You may not know the score as regards the Shah. We stuck him in power. He's almost lost it once and some of our boys did the business and kept him still on the Peacock Throne, as it's called... Why him? Well, he's thoroughly westernised... and much easier to handle... and if he did go, then we're only bound to get somebody nastier at the top.

Nastier? Does that mean there's something nasty in the cupboard over there, Tim? Was that a serious question or an example of the tail-twisting which had become a speciality of Jonas Forbes?

There was a long silence revealing an unwillingness to impart any confidences to ears that shouldn't really hear or be ‘burdened by’ peccadilloes about those not to be judged. Both came well within the bounds of the Official Secrets Act. This was definitely getting beyond the understood limits provided by Tim's superiors. But he had every confidence in Jonas Forbes - provided Jonas had every confidence in the support he got. His Security unit's called Savak and their methods have more to do with the Gestapo than Scotland Yard.

Lucky he's only here for four days then.

Even in that time there might be enough mayhem to cause the Government concern.

Especially with an election looming. Jonas put on his most dismissive smile and, for once, it just bounced off the MI6 agent who looked like every child's favourite uncle.

Whatever you might think, we believe the trouble will come from the other side. The Shah has stamped on a lot of toes - and heads! - since he's been in charge. Over here the opposition may think he's more open, and that's probably correct. He'll take more risks here.

And so you want me to start by trying to find out where the little nest of anti-Shah individuals is based.

Actually that's not quite true, Tim was pleased Jonas had unconsciously accepted the job. "We want you to work through the data Mabel's got over in Sir Frederick's