Текст книги "Whiplash"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

There were two lines for foreigners. Both were moving quickly, which gave Nuri some hope. He got on the one at the left, then turned around to look for Flash. He saw him—with the soldier who had just accosted him.

Flash didn’t have to pretend he didn’t understand what the Iranian was saying; he didn’t speak any Farsi, nor could he figure out what the soldier was complaining about. He simply shrugged and pointed toward the exit. The soldier told him that his friend was a jerk, and that he should find better people to travel with.

Flash nodded, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Go,” said the soldier. “Go.”

Flash saw Nuri near the front of the line on the left. He steered to the right, figuring that if there was a jam-up for some reason, at least one of them would get through quickly. Nuri spotted him and nodded.

The customs officers were in their sixties, men who had first gone to work for the government when the Shah was still in power. They were honest, not especially officious, and above all deliberate. Each had a list of people who were not to be allowed in the country on his desk. The list was 375 pages long, with the names from each country listed separately. When they received a visitor’s passport, they dutifully checked it against the list. They did this because it was their job, and also because the government had recently established a bonus system for customs officials who identified anyone on the list. Especially prized were men—all but two of the names were male—who had received judgments in suits against Iran over the years. In those cases, the men were allowed into the country—then detained and, essentially, blackmailed into paying some or all of the money before being put back on a plane and sent home.

These names were identified by small daggers. While most of the names were American, there were quite a few Italians as well.

“Why are you coming to Iran?” asked the customs officer in English as Nuri stepped up.

“I have business,” said Nuri, answering in Farsi because he hoped it would get him through the line quicker. “I am involved in the pipeline construction for the government’s new wells in the south.”

The customs officer was impressed. He took Nuri’s passport and cracked it open.

“So you are working here? This is a business trip?”

“There are some matters that have to be attended to,” said Nuri.

“You are fixing the pipeline?”

“Actually, the derricks,” said Nuri. “The pipelines are another department.”

“Hmmm.”

The Customs official looked at the visa. “You know that this visa is only good for seven days,” he said.

“Oh?”

“They should not have given you this one. In your case, because it is an important government assignment, you should have been given a six-month pass.”

“It should only take a day or two.”

“But that is the way it should be done.” The customs official reached under his desk and took out a pad. “Take this to the window over there,” he said, starting to write a note. “She will give you the proper documentation.”

“This matter came up in Dubai,” said Nuri. He spoke slowly, struggling with the words. “There was a debate. My boss went to the top official. They asked the ambassador himself. He said, this he said—give him the short visa only.”

“Well, if the ambassador said that. I could not overrule an ambassador.”

“Of course not.”

“He is wrong, though.”

“It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

The customs inspector shook his head, then crumpled the note up and put it in his pocket. He started to wave Nuri through, then realized he hadn’t checked his name against the list.

Slowly, he began leafing through the pages.

Nuri caught sight of Tarid walking out the main entrance.

“I’m sorry. We have procedures,” said the inspector as he found the Italian section.

“Take your time,” said Nuri, turning his eyes toward the ceiling.

44

Tehran

TEHRAN HAD ALWAYS FELT LIKE A FOREIGN PLACE TO ARASH Tarid. He’d been born in the southeastern corner of the country, about as far away from the capital as one could get and still stay in Iran. His first trip to the city had been when he was a teenager on some family errand, now long lost to memory. But he vividly remembered the city, all lit up. Cars whizzed everywhere—there was much less traffic, but just as much pollution. His eyes had stung the whole time he was there, and for three days afterward.

Tonight the traffic was worse, and the pollution just as bad. The taxi driver had asked 80,000 rials for the thirty-five-kilometer ride to the city; the fee hadn’t changed since the airport had opened.

“Returning home from business?” asked the driver, slowing with the traffic as they approached the city.

“Yes.”

“It must be exciting to go abroad.”

“It can be.”

Tarid shifted in the seat. While his leg injury hadn’t been serious, his body still ached from the firefight and the escape from the Sudan holding pen. He decided he would make a detour to Istanbul when his meeting with Bani Aberhadji was done. He would spend several days there, soaking in a bath in the old part of the city. A friend of his swore by the waters and the old man who ran the place, claiming they had curative powers.

And the apartments above were a good place to have drinks, if you knew the owner. He would not drink alcohol in Iran—the possibility of Aberhadji finding out was too great—but in Istanbul a man could relax, and even pose as a westerner if the mood struck him. No one would care.

“So, you were in Dubai?” asked the driver.

The question caught Tarid by surprise. He gripped the back of the driver’s seat and pulled himself close to the man.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I—uh—I just, I thought you were on the plane from Dubai. It was the one that just landed.”

“How do you know that?”

“The plane—the same plane every night. I take people into the city.”

The driver was trembling. He was in his mid-twenties, already losing his hair.

Tarid sat back.

“Just drive,” he told the man.

TARID COULD HAVE STAYED IN ONE OF THE HOTELS IN THE CITY owned by the Revolutionary Guard; Bani Aberhadji would have seen that his bill was settled for him. But he found their atmosphere stifling, and chose a smaller guest house on the outskirts of the old city instead. The owner recognized him when he came through the door, and came out from behind the counter to personally take his bags and welcome him to Tehran.

“We will get you a very nice room,” said the owner, whose name Tarid tried to recall but could not remember. “But first—a little tea? You look tired from your journey.”

“Tea would be nice.”

“Very good, Arash,” said the owner, turning toward the office behind the desk. He clapped his hands together. “Simin, get our friend some tea. A few cookies, too.”

The hotelier practically pushed Tarid to an overstuffed chair at the side of the lobby, then sat down across from him.

“There are many rumors around the city,” he told Tarid as they waited for the tea. “The president has made peace with the U.S.A.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“The rumor is that he’s going there soon.”

“I wouldn’t trust the devils,” said Tarid. “They’re not truthful.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still, it is an incredible thought.”

“A bad one.”

The host, who had relatives in America, stopped talking, afraid he might insult his guest.

His daughter Simin appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray with tea and cookies. Tarid hadn’t seen the girl in just over a year. She’d grown considerably in that time, blossoming into a beautiful woman. She wasn’t there yet—he was looking at a piece of fruit that had just begun to shade from green, its blush hinting at the sweetness still a week or two away. But the potential was obvious.

Her scarf slipped to one side as she poured the tea, exposing the curl of hair at the back of her neck. As someone who freely traveled the world, Tarid had numerous opportunities to see much more than that on women, yet the modest exposure made his heart surge.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” he said, reaching out to stop her hand as she poured.

“Simin.”

“A wonderful name. Silver. A precious piece of metal.”

Her eyes held his for a moment. Simin felt a confused mixture of emotions—excitement, dread, attraction. She knew from her father that Tarid was an important man, somehow connected with the Republican Guard. That he felt attracted to her—his eyes made that clear—was the most momentous thing that had happened to her since her birth.

Or so she believed. She flushed, and finished pouring the tea.

“Could I have some sugar?” asked Tarid. “Just one spoon.”

She put the teapot down, then bent to one knee to put it into his cup. Tarid admired the curve of her breast against her dress. To his mind, the suggestion was infinitely more seductive than the actual flesh.

The innkeeper saw the glances with alarm. His daughter was still young, not ready for marriage. If she left him, he would have no one to do the work here.

“Simin, off to your chores,” he said sharply. “I will see to our guest.”

“She is a very beautiful girl,” said Tarid when she was gone.

“Yes.”

The innkeeper’s nervousness amused Tarid. He said nothing else as he drank his tea, taking it in minuscule sips to savor the sweetness. Every so often he glanced at the doorway behind the desk, catching a glimpse of Simin as she went about her duties.

Finally, the cup was empty.

“Well, perhaps I will go up to my room now,” said Tarid. “I’ve had a long day and need to rest.”

“Yes, a good idea,” said the innkeeper with great relief. “Let me show you the way.”

NURI HAD THE CAB DRIVER DROP THEM OFF TWO BLOCKS from the hotel where Tarid had stopped.

“You want here, mister?” asked the driver. He spoke slowly in Farsi, forming each word carefully, convinced that it was the only way his foreign fare would understand. “I take you to a good hotel. Better for tourists.”

“This will do,” said Tarid in Farsi.

“But—”

“We’re meeting some friends. This is good.”

“If you wish.”

The driver pulled in the general direction of the curb, though not so far off the main lane of traffic that anyone could have squeezed around him. Nuri and Flash got out. After collecting their bags, Nuri gave the driver a 100,000 rial note and told him to keep the change.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The driver opened his door. “Are you sure that you don’t want a ride to a proper hotel? I know of many.”

“That’s OK.”

The driver shrugged, then left.

“Probably going to take us to his brother-in-law’s, right?” said Flash.

“No, he’s probably pretty honest. Most of the Iranians are kind to tourists. A few you have to watch out for, but most would give you the shirt off their back. Of course, everyone thinks you’re rich.”

Nuri glanced around the street. The area was shabby, not quite poor but far from prosperous. The same could be said for much of Tehran, and the entire country for that matter. Except for oil, there was not much going on in the economy, one reason the government had agreed to get rid of its nuclear weapons.

Or at least pretended to, he thought.

“High crime area?” Flash asked.

“Crime’s not too much of a problem in Tehran,” said Nuri, though he realized that the area was not the best. “We have a lot more to worry about from the police.”

He began walking down the block. The Voice had identified the building where Tarid was staying as a small, private hotel. It had been unable to get more information about it, however—an indication to Nuri that it catered exclusively to Iranians. It was possible it was connected to the government in some way, or the Iranian secret service, if Tarid was employed by it.

They stopped at the corner, still a half block from the hotel There was a small painted sign in Farsi.

“What do you think?” asked Flash. “We going to check in?”

“I’m not sure.”

Checking into a hotel controlled by the intelligence services would be needlessly dangerous under the circumstances. Nuri decided to take a look at the place and see how difficult it would be to wait for Tarid outside. Bumping into him in the street in the morning might be the easiest way to accomplish their mission.

On the other hand, the Voice said that Tarid was in the lobby. Perhaps he could go in and ask for directions—tag him as he stood nearby. Then he’d be able to get some real sleep.

“Wait here,” Nuri told Flash. “I’m going to check the place out.”

“What do I do with the bags?”

“Sit on them.”

“Thanks.”

The hotel was a narrow four-story building squeezed between two apartment houses. The entrance to the lobby was up a flight of steps from the street, situated just high enough to make it impossible to see inside without going up the steps, though Nuri tried as he walked by. He continued down the end of the block, crossed, and passed again on the other side. There were two restaurants and a café almost directly across from the place; it was likely Tarid would go there in the morning. Even if he didn’t, it would be easy to wait for him there.

“Locate the subject in the building,” said Nuri. “What floor is he on?”

“His elevation indicates floor three.”

“He’s not in the lobby?”

“Elevation indicates floor three.”

“Front or back?”

“Back.”

“When was the last time he moved?”

“Subject is moving.”

“Still in that apartment?”

“Within the previous parameters.”

The Voice couldn’t tell whether he was in a specific room; all it could do was compare how far he had gone to where he had gone earlier.

Nuri turned around at the corner, looking back down the street. He’d plant some video bugs to make surveillance easier, then come back in the morning.

But what he really wanted to do was plant one on Tarid.

Maybe he should wait until Tarid fell asleep, Nuri thought, then break into his hotel room.

A car sped down the street, passing so close that the wind nearly knocked him over. A loud, Western-style beat pounded from its speakers, the bass vibrating throughout the narrow street. He watched it for a moment, then crossed over, deciding he would go into the lobby and plant a bug.

Though the lights were on in the lobby, the hotel owner had locked the front door for the night. Nuri banged the door against the dead-bolt lock, not realizing it was closed.

Disappointed, he turned and looked for a spot where he could slip the bug.

He had just set one of the larger bugs beneath the rail when the door opened behind him, catching him by surprise.

“What do you want?” asked the hotel owner. His earlier good humor, when he first welcomed Tarid, had drained away.

“Oh, I—a wrong address,” said Nuri.

“You are looking for a room?”

“No, no, it’s OK,” he said.

Nuri’s accent made it plain that he was a foreigner. The hotel owner’s bad mood—provoked by Tarid’s attention toward his daughter—were moderated by the prospect of unexpected business.

“I can find you a very suitable room,” he told Nuri. “At a reasonable rate. Come.”

Nuri hesitated, then decided he might just as well go inside.

“Where is your bag?” asked the owner.

“I don’t have one. The airline—” He shook his head.

“Did you give them this address to deliver it?” the hotelier asked.

“No. I’m supposed to go out and pick it up,” said Nuri.

“Probably better for you. Sometimes they get lost on the way.” The hotel owner shook his head. “You have had a terrible time. I’m very sorry for you. Perhaps a bath will cheer you up. How did you find us?”

“I was looking for a hotel a friend told me of,” said Nuri. “I don’t know that it was yours, though. It was in this block—the Blossom?”

“I’ve never heard of it. Who was your friend?”

“Riccardo Melfi, of Milano,” said Nuri, offering the first name that flew into his head. It belonged to a friend of his whom he hadn’t seen since grade school.

The hotel owner, naturally, didn’t recognize it. But he said that he’d had an Italian recently, just to be polite.

“This may be the place he mentioned, then,” said Nuri. “He said it was a very nice place. With a professional staff.”

“Of course. And good rates. I do need to see your passport.”

“Certainly.”

Nuri handed it over to be copied.

“I’ll give it back in the morning,” said the hotel owner. “Collect it at the desk. Your room—”

“Would it be possible to make the copy this evening?” asked Nuri. “This way I won’t forget in the morning. And I can go out early.”

“You’re going out early?”

“I have business at the oil ministry very early. I was told to meet the minister immediately after morning prayers. If I am late, it is possible that I would not see him. Then I will lose my job.”

Ordinarily the owner would have made some excuse about the machine not working and put the guest off, but the casual mention of the minister had impressed him. He took the passport and went into the back room, where his daughter was still cleaning the bowls he had put her to work on hours before. He berated her, telling her it was well past time for her to finish and get to bed—and reminding her that she was not to go near any of the guests.

“Any guest,” he repeated.

“Yes, Papa.”

Out in the lobby, Nuri slipped a bug under the ledge of the desk, then tried to look at the ledger for the number to Tarid’s room. But the owner hadn’t bothered to record it.

“Your passport,” said the owner, returning. “And here is the key. There are only four rooms on each hall. Should I show you?”

“I can find it.”

Nuri walked to the end of the lobby and started up the stairs.

“The elevator is right there,” said the owner.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” said Nuri. He stepped over and pressed the button, getting in as soon as the doors were open.

He got off at the fourth floor, guessing that the hotel owner might be watching. His room faced the street. It was small, barely big enough to hold a bed, lamp, and table. A picture of Imam Khomeini looked down on him from above the bed.

Nuri examined the lock on the door. It was a simple latch, easily opened with a plastic card. Instead of a chain, there was a bar about neck high above the doorknob. This could be defeated by holding the door only partly ajar and pushing it in with a pen or something else long and slender. It took a little practice, since the bar had to be pushed just right, but he’d had plenty of practice.

Still worried that the hotel might be owned by the intelligence service, Nuri scanned the room for bugs, then checked for a live circuit at the door, just in case there was a device to indicate whether he was in the room. He found none.

“Locate Tarid,” he told the Voice.

“Subject’s location is unchanged.”

“When was the last time he moved?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

There were no TVs in the rooms. He had to be in bed, sleeping.

Nuri decided he would break into his room, mark him, and be done with it. If he could, he’d plant a bug on his bag as well. He made sure the vial of marker was ready in his pocket, then slipped out into the hallway.

THE SECOND TIME THE CAR WITH THE LOUD MUSIC PASSED, Flash became apprehensive. He had no weapon and didn’t understand any Farsi at all. There were no lights on in the windows on this part of the block. As far as he was concerned, he was an inviting target, obviously a lone foreigner, probably a hick one at that, in a place where he didn’t belong. He’d have been worried even if he were back home.

He started walking down the street, hoping he’d come to a place where there were more people.

He could feel the pulse of the bass as the car approached a third time. Flash’s muscles tensed.

The car jerked to a stop. Three young men got out, leaving the driver and another in the front. They swaggered over to the side of the street as Flash continued to walk. Despite the general prohibition on alcohol, all three were drunk; the smell of stale scotch wafted toward Flash as he walked.

“Hey, hey, look at this fag,” said one of the men. “Carrying two suitcases. He is such a little girl.”

“I bet he is a rich one.”

“One of the cases has makeup and his veil,” said the third.

Flash couldn’t understand the words but the gist of what they were about was obvious. He got ready for an attack.

“I think he is a tourist,” said one of the men in English. “Are you tourist? Tour-ist? Maybe you have euros, yes? Money for us.”

I have something for you, thought Flash. But he knew his best course was to be quiet and maybe slip away. That was the irony of being on a covert mission: You had to act like a coward.

He quickened his pace, walking so fast that they had to trot to keep up.

The man who had been speaking ran up behind him, trying to tap him on the shoulder as a tease. Flash saw his shadow growing on the pavement in front of him. Just as he got close, Flash spun and caught his arm, pulling it past him and throwing the man forward. He crashed head first against a car.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said a second man. He ran up and took a swing at Flash. This was easily ducked—and when Flash came up, he threw two rights and a left into the man’s midsection, bowling him over.

The third young man, some years younger than the others at eighteen, began backing away. But it was too late for him—Flash stomped his right leg down, using it as a spring to leap forward. He hit the young man squarely in the chest, throwing him backward to the ground. The kid’s head hit the pavement. The rush of pain was so intense he blacked out.

The man he’d thrown against the car rebounded and tried to swing a roundhouse at Flash’s side, thinking he could catch him unawares. But Flash knew he was close and partly deflected the blow with his left arm. That left the Iranian open for a counterpunch, which Flash quickly scored to his face. The man staggered upright, shocked at the force of the blow. Foreigners were supposed to be weak; this man hit harder than anyone he’d ever fought.

Two more punches and he fell back, staggered and dizzy. He spun off to the ground and began throwing up the booze he’d drank earlier. Flash put his boot heel in the man’s side, knocking him to the ground in a swirl of vomit.

The attacker he’d punched in the stomach got up, took a step toward him, then realized he didn’t have a chance. He turned and ran up the block.

Before the fight began, the driver and his front seat passenger had been jeering and egging the younger men on. With their comrades faring poorly, they decided the time had come for them to get in on the action.

The driver pulled the latch on the trunk release, then jumped from the vehicle and ran to the back, grabbing a tire iron and tossing it to the other man. Then he pulled a crowbar out, and together they advanced on Flash.

Flash was deciding which one of the men to hit first, and how, when a gunshot broke the silence. He ducked, but the shot had not been aimed at him—it broke the back window of the car, blasting the glass.

“Get the hell out of here before you are next!” growled a woman in gutter Farsi. She stood in the middle of the street, the wind whipping at her long skirt. Her face was covered by her scarf. She had a pistol in her hand; a man dressed entirely in black stood behind her with a rifle.

Hera and Danny had arrived.

“Now!” Hera yelled, pointing the gun.

The two men looked at each other, then at her.

“My car,” said the driver.

Danny raised the rifle, pointing it at his chest.

“You’re next,” he said in Farsi, parroting the words the Voice gave him.

The two men ran for the car.

NURI WAS JUST REACHING A THIN PLASTIC CARD INTO THE latch slot of Tarid’s door when the gunshot sounded a block behind the hotel. He froze, unsure if the sound was loud enough to wake Tarid.

It was. He heard him stir and backed away from the room quietly.

TARID BOLTED UP IN BED, ROLLING ON THE FLOOR. HIS FIRST thought was that he was back in Sudan and under attack. Then he realized the sound had come from outside.

He ran to the door, pushed the latch closed and made sure the knob was locked.

It wasn’t going to hold anyone. He told himself to relax—the shot had been fired outside the hotel, surely not at him.

But if not at him, who could have been targeted? Shootings were very rare in the city, and this hadn’t been a celebratory outburst.

He thought of the hotel owner—and his daughter. He started putting on his pants and shoes, to make sure they were all right.

NURI WAITED DOWN THE HALL, HOPING TARID WOULD COME out. Two other guests came out and began asking what was going on.

“A gunshot,” said Nuri.

“Where, where?”

The elevator door opened and the hotel owner came out. He looked up and saw Nuri. He was surprised to find him on the third floor.

“There’s been a shooting,” said Nuri quickly.

“It’s under control,” said the man, who’d come to get Tarid in hopes that Tarid could help him figure out what was going on. “Go back to bed.”

“What’s going on?”

“Go, it’s under control.”

Nuri decided to retreat. By the time Tarid opened the door, he was back upstairs.

“Nuri, what’s going on?” Danny asked over the Voice’s communications channel.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Flash almost got mugged. Where the hell are you?”

“In the hotel. Trying to tag Tarid.”

“You got him?”

“No, there’s too many people. We’ll have to try in the morning,” said Nuri reluctantly. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in an hour.”