Read Online The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller by Andrew Britton - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Britton
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home-made devices to missing Soviet-era warheads, would have very different readings—all of them far less potent than this. That heat bloom was produced by something extremely powerful and extremely raw.”
The silence returned, more thoughtful.
“What would an old nuclear device be doing in the Arctic Circle?” Breen asked.
The President said, “When we find it, we’ll know. Ms. Jafari—thank you. Gentlemen? Let’s track this thing down.”
CHAPTER 3
BERGEN, NORWAY
T hirty-seven-year-old Bijan Parvin, captain of the container ship Ghorbani, did not care about politics. He did not care about religion. But their impact on his life—that was another matter. He nurtured that like a fine tobacco.
He had served in the military as a young man, mostly so he could learn about shipping; when he had done his time, he went to sea as an assistant crane operator on a freighter. He was twenty-one at the time and had spent two years in the navy. For most Iranian men mandatory military service was twenty months. But if you were from a poor area like Parvin was—when he left drought-stricken Sístánva Balúchestá, his twelve-year-old sister was already a roadside worker, willing to do anything requested by passing motorists—four extra months were added to your tour of duty. The idea was that you would return to society with added skills and discipline. Parvin learned two things. One was his sea skills. The other was not to be an ideologue. Regimes came and went. Within regimes, petty warlords rose and fell. Standards were inconsistent and often in conflict. Beards that were permitted in one district were considered too long in another, too short in yet another, too thin to mean you were a man, too gray to qualify you for youthful labor. Religion? Most villages were Shi’a, some were Sunni, and then there was a smattering of Christians, Jews, and others. The combination of ways in which a man could be unacceptable in his surroundings was profound.
Not at sea.
On his way to and from naval vessels—mostly broken-down Russian ships that he learned to repair with spit and a prayer—Parvin had learned never to stray far from the international harbors. He never engaged in quiet political discussions or social debate, avoided cafés where he might be asked an opinion, and was a practicing Muslim only when he was among others who decided to pray. He had few possessions: the money he earned he sent home to his mother, his goatherd father, and his unwed sister.
When he went to work for Ostad Shipping three years earlier, Parvin knew there would be days like this one. Ostad was one of the smaller members of the Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines Group. The entire IRISL operation had been sanctioned by the United States, the European Union, and the United Nations for allegedly advancing Iran’s nuclear and ballistic missile programs by smuggling technology, parts, and the occasional scientist to the homeland in defiance of international law. Not only had Parvin witnessed some of the smuggling, he had become increasingly involved—and recompensed—for his hands-on involvement. He did not care about the right and wrong of it. He had no opinion other than this: the more money he made, the more comfortable he could make his family. Until his sister, now twenty-seven, could move to another village where her teenaged activities were not known, she stood no chance of being married. That required money, not just for her physical relocation but for a new identity. A potential suitor, especially one who was well-to-do or well connected, would routinely check to make certain the young woman was not hiding precisely the past she was hiding. The irony, of course, is that the chances were good said husband had employed the services of several women for whom selling their bodies was the only means of securing an income.
Parvin refused to let that embitter him. Unlike his sister, who was always angry, he was too practical. That was the
The silence returned, more thoughtful.
“What would an old nuclear device be doing in the Arctic Circle?” Breen asked.
The President said, “When we find it, we’ll know. Ms. Jafari—thank you. Gentlemen? Let’s track this thing down.”
CHAPTER 3
BERGEN, NORWAY
T hirty-seven-year-old Bijan Parvin, captain of the container ship Ghorbani, did not care about politics. He did not care about religion. But their impact on his life—that was another matter. He nurtured that like a fine tobacco.
He had served in the military as a young man, mostly so he could learn about shipping; when he had done his time, he went to sea as an assistant crane operator on a freighter. He was twenty-one at the time and had spent two years in the navy. For most Iranian men mandatory military service was twenty months. But if you were from a poor area like Parvin was—when he left drought-stricken Sístánva Balúchestá, his twelve-year-old sister was already a roadside worker, willing to do anything requested by passing motorists—four extra months were added to your tour of duty. The idea was that you would return to society with added skills and discipline. Parvin learned two things. One was his sea skills. The other was not to be an ideologue. Regimes came and went. Within regimes, petty warlords rose and fell. Standards were inconsistent and often in conflict. Beards that were permitted in one district were considered too long in another, too short in yet another, too thin to mean you were a man, too gray to qualify you for youthful labor. Religion? Most villages were Shi’a, some were Sunni, and then there was a smattering of Christians, Jews, and others. The combination of ways in which a man could be unacceptable in his surroundings was profound.
Not at sea.
On his way to and from naval vessels—mostly broken-down Russian ships that he learned to repair with spit and a prayer—Parvin had learned never to stray far from the international harbors. He never engaged in quiet political discussions or social debate, avoided cafés where he might be asked an opinion, and was a practicing Muslim only when he was among others who decided to pray. He had few possessions: the money he earned he sent home to his mother, his goatherd father, and his unwed sister.
When he went to work for Ostad Shipping three years earlier, Parvin knew there would be days like this one. Ostad was one of the smaller members of the Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines Group. The entire IRISL operation had been sanctioned by the United States, the European Union, and the United Nations for allegedly advancing Iran’s nuclear and ballistic missile programs by smuggling technology, parts, and the occasional scientist to the homeland in defiance of international law. Not only had Parvin witnessed some of the smuggling, he had become increasingly involved—and recompensed—for his hands-on involvement. He did not care about the right and wrong of it. He had no opinion other than this: the more money he made, the more comfortable he could make his family. Until his sister, now twenty-seven, could move to another village where her teenaged activities were not known, she stood no chance of being married. That required money, not just for her physical relocation but for a new identity. A potential suitor, especially one who was well-to-do or well connected, would routinely check to make certain the young woman was not hiding precisely the past she was hiding. The irony, of course, is that the chances were good said husband had employed the services of several women for whom selling their bodies was the only means of securing an income.
Parvin refused to let that embitter him. Unlike his sister, who was always angry, he was too practical. That was the
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