Cherry red leather, little black bow. Sand grains caked to the blood on it.
I looked up at Faraj. “Pop the trunk,” I said.
He walked around to the driver’s door. I rose up slowly, unable to breathe, waiting for the coffin lid to open.
46.
Lock and Load
AS I STRUGGLED up the slope behind Faraj, I fought head-spinning nausea and a recurring urge to vomit. My legs bowed and wobbled like a circus clown on stilts. Blowing sand whipped my face. The sky seemed to have vanished.
So much blood.
The horror flooded back and blinded me. I stumbled to my knees.
Get up, keep going. Forget about it now.
But I could not forget. Curled inside a plastic sheet like some aborted fetus, the naked, bloody, gutted corpse kept floating into view. Disappearing. Reappearing. A corpse inside my head.
Think of something else.
I looked up at Faraj. Climbing in a frenzy. He was using his shotgun like a walking stick, gripping the muzzle of the metal barrel and jamming the stock into the sand. With every step he took I thought he’d blow his fucking head off.
“Have you put your safety on?”
He didn’t seem to hear. His dogged steps sent slow cascades spilling down over my boots.
Throat slit clear through the windpipe. Intestines spilling from the lacerated belly. Shocked eyes frozen in terror.
Think of something else.
Think of Oriana—she might be alive.
Her shoe, we had decided, must have gotten knocked off when they hauled her out of the trunk. Only her cashmere wrap remained, soaking in the blood of the cadaver. Her clothes must have been awash in it; she’d lain in there for hours. Down below in the gully they had finally pulled her out. I imagined her blinking into the daylight, trying to wake from the nightmare of being locked in the dark with Sar.
Had he been dead when they drove off the ferry? Or had he expired en route? Judging from the lake of blood in the trunk and the viciousness of his wounds, if he had been alive in there, he hadn’t been for long. His body was blue and putrefying. Given the stench and the suffocating heat, I wondered how Oriana could have survived.
Why had they locked her in there with him? Pay-back for the killing of their colleague back in Baku, the hole she had blasted through his head? Or was it for the shame she’d brought on Vanitar Azad, dropping him into my vomit outside that airport bathroom stall? An Israeli, a woman yet, guarding a son of Satan and allied with the vile Mossad. The assassins must have despised her. Or more deeply, must have feared her. How else to explain the savagery of Sar’s brutal murder, and the disgusting nightmare they had forced her to endure.
It was a wonder she was still alive. What were they keeping her for?
We had found her bare footprint in the sand beside theirs, along with the spiked impression of her one remaining heel. The tracks led down the riverbed to where the canyon wall could be scaled. The shoe had finally fallen off halfway to the top; Faraj stumbled across it in the sand. From that point her two bare feet led up the steep incline, between two sets of shoeprints from the Iranians. It appeared the men were helping her—or forcing her—to climb, in some places even dragging her up the slope.
After cresting the bluff, the tracks continued on, heading away from the gully. “They’re looking for the road,” I said. According to the map, it ran along the rim. We found it roughly twenty yards ahead. The shoeprints turned and continued along the ruts, Oriana’s bare footprints between them. Sand streamed over the fading tracks and lifted into the wind; ahead, the road vanished into oblivion.
I glanced again at the map, trembling in my hand, and peered once more into the dust. But all I could see there was the cadaver’s empty stare—gaping into the void, or out from it. My voice cracked with trepidation, “Should be just ahead.”
Faraj did not respond. I realized he hadn’t spoken since we’d left the open trunk. The corpse festered in his head, too, a head overcrowded with other corpses—his murdered father’s, his uncle’s, his friends’—and with memories of the torture he himself had endured. The accumulation of outrages left no room for fear.
He turned to me, his brown eyes blazing. “We will send them both to hell,” he said. He started up the road.
I fell in alongside him. “We need to be careful, Faraj. Keep our heads. Think this through.”
He looked at me, almost sneering, and trudged on into the wind.
Alert to any movement, any sign or sound of the men, my fear concocted mirages. Gusts spun ghostly figures toward us. Whispers caught my ear. Icy blades slipped round my throat, eliciting sudden chills. We plowed ahead through these intangible tortures, advancing step-by-step as in a trance, until at last, barely visible in the dust, the mirage of a giant, heaving, camel-colored creature transformed into a billowing canvas tent.
We stopped.
Men’s gruff voices floated on the wind. Snatches, indistinct, hostile.
I blindly tucked away my map while peering at the misted shelter. Faraj turned to me slowly, raising a finger to his lips. Taking up his shotgun, he nodded down at my coat pocket. I reached in and pulled out the Makarov. Nervously I struggled again to release the safety latch, which seemed even more resistant than before. Grit may have gummed the mechanism; my trembling fingers couldn’t budge it. But finally the latch grinded into place, and I nodded to Faraj that I was ready.
He gestured off to the left of the road, indicating that I should approach from that side, that he would approach from the other, just as we had done with the Mercedes. I nodded agreement and moved off cautiously. Faraj faded off to the right.
Sand swept over the ground before me, veiling scrub and stone. With no more footprints or tire ruts to follow, I kept my eyes glued to the tent. It seemed to be stitched from sand and sky and given its form from the wind. When I’d wandered far enough to the side and started closing in toward it, the structure materialized out of the dust: a sagging sort of military field tent. Restrained by ropes and propped with poles, the canvas swelled and flapped in the gale like a pinned and prodded pterodactyl.
Scraps of voices fluttered by, louder, but still indistinct. It was hard to tell where they were coming from—inside the tent or behind it, or perhaps from somewhere else entirely. As I listened intently, drawing gradually closer, searching for a door or an opening in the tent, I suddenly stumbled to the ground.
My pistol went into the sand. I pulled it out and shook it off, then blew sharply at the hammer and the slide, trying to clear out the grit. The last thing I needed was the mechanism to jam.
I stood up—and was startled to discover that I’d tripped over a corpse.
47.
The Shot
THE BODY BELONGED TO A MAN, a policeman from the looks of it: his uniform had epaulets and a shield pinned to the pocket. His clothes and face were covered with a concealing film of sand; it dusted his open eyelashes and dulled each cornea’s sheen. The pistol in his holster had never been unstrapped—the fellow had been taken by surprise. I figured he hadn’t been there long, but I had no doubt he was dead. Blood still trickled from the gash across his throat. Like Sar, it had filled up his windpipe.
A painful cry tore through the wind. I spun around to the tent.
The canvas idly fluttered and snapped. Where, I wondered, was Faraj?
I crept up to the wall of the tent and paused a moment to listen. No sound emerged. I peered around the corner. Faraj was nowhere in sight, but the door of the tent hung partly open. I edged slowly toward it and peeped inside, holding my Mak at the ready.
A chicken drumstick on a sheet of newspaper lay half-eaten on a bench. A tripod stool beside it stood empty. Beneath the stool, a coffee mug lay on its side, its contents soaking the tarpaulin floor.
I listened, but still heard nothing. Sucking in an anxious breath, I peeled back the door flap.
A pair of trousers lay neatly folded on a sleeping cot in a corner, a duffel bag stuffed beneath it, along
with stacks of books. At the back wall, several wooden crates surrounded a long, foldable table. On it rested a kerosene lamp, a blue enamel coffee pot over a canned-fuel cooker, and a steel-cased laptop, folded shut. Fragments of encrusted pottery and artifacts littered the rest of the tabletop, with various archaeological tools scattered in among them—calipers, paint brushes, a trowel, dental picks. A collapsible director’s chair had toppled to the ground, and several plastic-coated geological maps littered the floor around it, along with a floppy canvas hat and a smashed pair of aviator sunglasses.
There was no one inside the tent. The cry had come from outside.
I released the door flap and continued around the perimeter, past a water drum on a stand. A Land Rover sat parked nearby, thickly coated with dust. Beyond it, not too far off, I discerned what looked like a long, dark wall.
Faraj was nowhere to be seen.
The voices seemed to be coming from some place beyond the wall. I moved cautiously toward it. A single English word sailed over on the wind, a question delivered as a command: “Understand?”
Shifting the pistol to my left hand, I wiped the sweat from the palm of my right. Thoughts and second-thoughts bombarded my febrile brain. My heart pounded uncontrollably. I tried to focus by concentrating on how I would shoot the gun: two hand grip, one foot forward, trunk leaning in, sight down the barrel.
Aim for the head or chest, he’d said. Gently squeeze the trigger.
The wall turned out to be a wind-screen fence—green vinyl mesh stretched to block blowing sand. The mesh shivered and whistled in the gale. A deep drift had banked up against it. I crouched low and crawled to the rim. Raising my gaze above the blowing embankment, I peered through the weave of the mesh.
The gauzy view revealed a gaping excavation, like the pit for a swimming pool or the foundation for a house. At the bottom of the pit, beside the remains of a mud-brick wall, an empty wheelbarrow, and the ancient foundation of some circular structure, several figures clustered together. I pressed my face against the mesh to get a clearer view.
A man on his knees—burly, beardless, hands tied behind his back—was watching Oriana and the two Iranians. Oriana was kneeling between the two, wrists bound behind her, head hanging down, hair nearly touching the ground. At her back stood the hulking assassin, his sleeves rolled up above massive forearms, while in front of her the runt in the Dago-T gazed down on her, talking softly.
A fury rose inside me, tangled with dread and doubt. I feared if I tried to shoot the assassins I might miss them and kill Oriana.
The runt reached out with a crescent dagger and lifted her face to look at him. The man on his knees cried, “Leave her!”
The runt shouted something back at him. Again he spoke softly to Oriana. I strained to hear what he said.
Out of nowhere, Faraj suddenly plopped down beside me. Startled, I turned my gun on him. He opened his hand and urgently whispered, “Give it to me.”
“What?”
“Your pistol. My shells spread wide—they’re too close to her. I’m going down—”
Oriana groaned.
We peered through the fence. The big man had grabbed her hair and hauled back her head, exposing her throat to the guy with the knife.
“She said she told you all she know!” The protest came again from the kneeling man, whom I assumed was the site’s archaeologist. The runt turned abruptly, and with a backhanded slap, nearly knocked the man to the ground.
Faraj yanked the Mak from me and thrust his shotgun into my arms. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Second they clear, shoot them.”
I took his gun. “But how—?”
Faraj was gone, running crouched along the berm, heading to the other end of the pit where an earthen ramp led down below.
I looked at the Russian riot gun, trying to remember how to cock it and fire. Pump-action—push and pull. Three extra shells. Fourth in the barrel, ready to—
Oriana howled in agony. I peered down through the mesh. The runt had opened the top of her blouse and was carving bright lines on her chest.
The archaeologist hollered, “Stop!” and struggled to his feet. The runt turned and swiftly booted him.
Faraj had disappeared into the dust. I scrambled along the fence line to find some kind of break in the windscreen. A short ways down, a joint between panels left a narrow vertical slot. I crept to the top of the sand drift, eased the gun barrel through the slot, and peered down into the pit.
They were closer now, less than twenty yards away, yet still unaware that I was watching them. In fact the two men were so absorbed in their torture they didn’t notice Faraj at first. He boldly marched down the earthen ramp with the pistol held out in front of him. At last the big lug saw him and called to the runt, who whirled around to face him with his dagger.
Faraj aimed and fired but the runt dove aside. The shot grazed the shoulder of the big guy. Clutching the wound, he released Oriana. She collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Faraj kept shooting but the pistol failed to fire. Again and again he clicked the trigger. Finally, he gawked at the useless weapon, and in frustration flung it at the runt.
Dodging it, the man started toward him, leading with his long, curving dagger. The big guy—bleeding, furious—followed him. Faraj started backing away.
Pulse racing, I rose up on my knees at the top of the drift and aimed through the slot in the windscreen. The assassins were too close to Oriana. I tracked them in the rifle’s V-notch, my finger tight on the trigger, ready to fire the moment they were clear. But suddenly the archaeologist rose up from his knees and launched himself at the men. Barreling into their ankles, he toppled them both to the ground.
Faraj, emboldened, grabbed a spade from beside the wheelbarrow and charged at the fallen men. But before he reached them, the runt took a swipe at the archaeologist, slashing across his thigh. The man crumpled.
Faraj attacked the wiry Iranian, swinging the shovel at his head. Even in the wind I could hear the metallic thwack. The runt staggered. His nose ran red.
Faraj turned as the big Iranian stormed toward him. Again Faraj swung the spade, but the giant easily blocked his strike and grabbed the shovel away. Then he tossed the thing aside and drew out his knife, another gleaming Damascene blade.
The runt stepped up beside him, his face now streaming blood. The two Iranians started toward Faraj.
Faraj, backing away, turned tail and ran up the ramp. The men charged after him. Faraj hollered, “Jack!”
Up on my knees on the rim of the drift, arms now tight and trembling, I struggled to center the V-notch on the two men crossing the pit. The barrel pivoted, following them. Aim for the head or—suddenly the mesh obscured my view. I frantically squeezed the trigger.
The shell exploded and the recoil knocked me back.
I tumbled backwards down the drift. The shotgun fell from my hands. For a moment I lay at the bottom, stunned and disoriented, completely unable to hear. Then the sound of the wind came howling back—and in it, the moan of a man.
48.
God is Great
THE GIANT LAY SPRAWLED against the mud brick wall, the side of his head riddled with buckshot, a shoulder and sleeve of his shirt bright red. Even at a distance, bounding down the ramp, I could tell at a glance he was dead.
The moaning had come from the runt. He lay bleeding in the sand nearby, reaching out feebly toward his knife. I stopped in front of it and pointed the shotgun at him. Up close, with his body stretched out, he no longer looked so small. As he raised his bloody face, the exhilaration I’d been feeling until then turned all at once into horror. His right eyeball had been obliterated and the skin of his cheek was gone.
“Leave it,” I said, more a plea than a demand.
He continued groping toward the blade. I wondered how much buckshot had lodged in his brain, or if the problem was he simply couldn’t hear me—the flesh of one ear had been destroyed. I called to Faraj, “This one’s still alive.”
Faraj had t
aken the other Iranian’s knife and cut free the bound archaeologist. The man, bleeding from the knife wound to his thigh, now helped Faraj cut loose Oriana’s ties and lift her gently back onto her feet.
I aimed again at the Iranian, still groveling in the sand. There was something fascinating in his stubborn refusal to die. A defiance, a willfulness, a curious lack of fear. I would have expected him to plead for mercy; instead he strained to reach his weapon, ignoring the gaze of my gun.
The others slowly made their way toward us. The wind moaned high above, but an eerie silence pervaded the pit. The remains of the wall that had been uncovered looked as old as the Earth itself. Beyond it, the circle of ancient foundation stones gave off a numinous aura. Strange place to kill a man, I thought. In the sanctum of some lost civilization.
Faraj and the burly, limping archaeologist silently stepped up beside me. Oriana, unrecognizable, hung limply draped between them. The runt had carved a Star of David into the flesh of her chest. Haggard, hair wild, blouse drenched in blood, only her eyes seemed to show any life as she stared down upon her torturer.
The man’s fingers curled around the handle of his dagger. As he dragged the weapon toward him, he seemed to come alive. We watched him slowly struggle to his knees and lift up his good eye to glare at us. The eye held a moment on his victim, Oriana, then drifted across and settled on me.
The runt seemed to recognize my face. I gulped, and leveled the shotgun at him. He noticed the barrel was shaking, and a smile creased his remaining cheek.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
He slowly lifted the blood-edged dagger. “Allahu Akbar—” he croaked, then toppled face-down in the sand, dead.
WHILE BANDAGING HER KNIFE WOUNDS in the shelter of the tent, we discovered Oriana had a serious gash, on her left side beneath the bottom rib. The assassins, back in Baku, had ambushed her and her cousin before they had even boarded the ferry. Someone—probably Pashazadeh—had tipped the Iranians off. They knew Sar was an imposter, and they tried to force him to reveal where I was headed. When he refused, they began to disembowel him—alive—in front of her. “I had to tell them everything,” Oriana said. Still it didn’t stop them from cutting Sar’s throat and stuffing the two Israelis into the trunk. “They wanted to make sure I am telling the truth. When they see you are not here, they say that I am lying.”
The Assassin Lotus Page 19
