She looked down at the cup in her hands, then back at Ethan.
Ethan stepped forward and touched the woman’s fingers in a cajoling way. “That’s right,” he said, gently. “You’ve been on a little tour of Jahannam, but you’re back now.”
This patient empathy seemed to touch a nerve inside Dr. Avesta, or perhaps it was the reference to hell, or his touch, because she looked up angrily and jerked away.
“What do you know of Jahannam?” she said.
Ethan shrugged. “Enough.”
She threw the cup aside and the porcelain shattered against the wall, spraying it with tea. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go with you.” She broke down in tears, and held her hands to her face. “Those campus guards. Why did you have to kill them? Why? I knew one of them. He was my friend. My friend!”
“It wasn’t us,” Ethan said, tightening his lower jaw. “It was the Kidon.”
Bretta wrapped an arm around Kiana and held her consolingly. Kiana wept on her shoulder.
Bretta nodded her chin toward the broken cup and mouthed “make some more.”
Ethan went to the kitchen and steeped another cup. He added a good portion of sugar.
By the time he had returned to the living room, Kiana seemed to have calmed down. She looked at him with red eyes.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” Ethan told her. He offered her the new cup, and she gripped it with trembling hands before taking a long sip.
He sat across from the young Iranian scientist and gave her an encouraging smile. “Now, Dr. Avesta. Let me explain the situation to you.”
Kiana Avesta listened with her mouth slightly agape while the rugged American man clarified that he and his two colleagues represented a clandestine sector of the United States Department of Defense. He explained, in the clipped and unelaborate language of a man who spent much of his time embroiled in blood, secrets and shadows, how the Israeli Mossad had learned of her research and sent a kill team in to take her out and steal what work of hers they could.
As Kiana listened to the man––Ethan was his name, she reminded herself––talk, she found herself staring at him; the weathered features, the creases in the corners of his eyes, the stubbly jaw, the eyes that were simultaneously brave and cold, dangerous and sad. A fluttering sensation spread from her stomach upwards into her chest, and down towards her…
Kiana had never had too much to do with men in the romantic sense. She had had far too much work to be getting on with––work that was not just important to her personally, but had the potential to benefit humanity as a whole. She had gone out with a few suitors––fellow scientists mostly–– but she had not taken to any of them, though they seemed besotted with her inside the first three minutes.
This man though, he was nothing like any man she had ever met before. While a couple of the men she had gone out with had certainly appealed to her intellect, this hired soldier, or whatever it was that he was, seemed to pluck at all those basic, visceral parts of her. She suddenly found herself stirred up into a sort of hormonal soup.
Perhaps it was because he fought so hard and risked his life to save hers. Perhaps it was simply a neurological chemical surge brought on by all that cordite and gun smoke. And all that noise.
For a woman who prided herself on her ability to think clearly and logically, these new sensations were a little disconcerting, and made doubly so by the fact he was an American. She cursed herself for feeling this way, and reminded herself that he was no friend. She was just a package to him.
She was also aware, thanks to her female intuition, maybe, that the woman with bright blue eyes was watching her carefully. She had an inkling the woman did not much like her, but could not be certain whether it was the simple, shallow prejudice that an American might hold against an Iranian, or something else. Kiana didn’t know what might lie behind this simmering dislike, but she did know one thing; this would be one woman whom it would be ridiculously foolish to cross. She had seen her crash through the door of the university café, fall with bone-shaking heaviness down the stairway and then get up as if nothing had happened, all the while under a hail of gunfire.
Kiana took a sip of her tea and leaned forward slightly, wincing a little at the pain in her stomach where the ricocheting bullet had struck her. With some effort, she managed to concentrate on what the man, Ethan, was telling her.
“The original plan,” Ethan said, a bitter smile curling the corners of his mouth, “was to leave Tehran tonight and head for the Azerbaijan border by road. We have fresh Spanish passports for all of us, including yourself, that would see us across the land border. However, with this virus––COVID-19, as they call it––ravaging the country, the land borders are shut to private vehicles, tighter than a nun’s... tight as a drum. There’s a possibility we could buy passage on a cargo ship instead, and sail up the coast of the Caspian Sea and then on through the Volga-Don Canal until we make it to the Black Sea. However, this again assumes that Iranian shipping isn’t shut down by the virus by the time we arrive. Already I’ve got reports that the port city of Chabahar has been quarantined. All entry and exit to and from the city have been banned, including by ship. This ban will likely be extended to other port cities in the coming days and hours.”
Kiana cocked her head to the side. A lock of her thick hair tumbled across her face, and she saw Ethan’s eyes follow it. She was sure that they paused fleetingly on her lips as she opened her mouth to ask him a question. As a research scientist, she adored problems and the process of puzzling them out.
“So, we cannot travel by road and we cannot travel by sea,” she said. “And, presumably, we cannot travel by air, that being the easiest method of transportation to police. So how is it that you plan to get me––all of us––out of Iran? Or are we going to stay here for a few months until things calm down.”
He gave her a long, appraising look. Kiana could not long endure that bold stare, and quickly ducked her head and blushed.
Damn him.
“You’re quite right, in a way,” he said, eventually. “The airports are, by far and away, the easiest method of transportation out of the country to monitor. What with this virus, and the impact it’s having on the air travel, there are far fewer people flying, which means there are less people to hide amongst in the airports themselves. That being said, I’ve decided that we’re going to catch the first flight out of here to Barcelona.”
Kiana frowned. “Why Barcelona? I thought the U.S. was our destination...”
“Because of reduced demand, the airlines have been shutting down routes like you wouldn’t believe,” Ethan replied. “The earliest outgoing flight we can get is to Barcelona. The next flight to the U.S. is a week away. Besides, we’re carrying Spanish passports. It will make our passage through airport security all the easier. It makes sense for four Spanish nationals to be heading back to one of their biggest cities, considering everything going on in the world.”
Kiana was still struggling to fully believe she was going to try sneaking onto a plane with a fake passport. She felt like she was in some spy movie. Minus all the Hollywood flash—images of the dead security guards filled her head. She nodded at Ethan’s reply and quickly took a sip of tea to distract herself from the welling fear.
“I’m not sure it will work,” Kiana said. “The Iranians won’t let me go. They’ll stop us. Arrest me. Arrest us all.”
Ethan sat back, and shrugged. “The Iranians are the least of our worries. I doubt they’ll realize you’re even missing until we land in Spain.”
“You’re wrong,” Kiana said. “Our police system is one of the best in the world.”
“That might be true in the best of times,” Ethan said. “But my sources tell me half the local police departments are running on skeleton crews. Police have been calling in sick all over the city, forcing entire precincts to self isolate.” He paused. “I’m worried about the Israelis. They will be observing every port, have eyes on every
tollbooth and will be watching the airports like goddamn hawks.”
Kiana thought of something. “I thought the Israelis were friends of the Americans.”
“They are, usually,” Ethan told her. “But in this case, our interests conflict, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Kiana agreed. “I wonder why it is you are electing to leave this way. Why can’t we stay in this safehouse for a few days at least until the fervor dies down a little?”
“Because,” Ethan replied in a patient voice, “the harder it will be to leave. I already told you that many international flights have been cancelled. Who’s to say that in a few days, all of them won’t be cancelled? Plus, if the Israelis don’t find us within about eighteen hours, the first thing they’re going to do is leak your abduction to the media. That will make getting out of here ten times more difficult. The borders are already—”
“Locked down tighter than a nun?” Kiana supplied innocently.
Ethan smiled. “That’s right.”
Next to her, the icy-eyed woman gave a snort of impatience. A thought suddenly occurred to her.
What if there is something between the two of them?
Everything that she had ever read in novels or seen in movies went against this idea. Men and women like these two did not see people, did they? Surely, there was no space for relationships in lives that were stuffed so full with secrets.
“Basically,” Ethan continued, breaking into Kiana’s thoughts, “I’m hoping that, with the aid of these convenient masks everyone seems to be wearing, we’ll be able to get into Mehrabad International and buy our tickets without being detected. It’s too bad the women don’t commonly wear full burqas here, but the masks will have to be enough.”
The icy-eyed woman studied Ethan. “You really believe we’ll board the plane without being flagged by the Mossad?”
“No,” Ethan said. “I won’t dare assume that. But I am confident they won’t risk an international incident in an airport. I think most likely they’ll try to intercept us in Barcelona.”
Kiana’s face fell at this. After what she had seen of the Mossad’s hit squad, the idea of meeting them in Barcelona was not much of an improvement to meeting them in Tehran.
The icy-eyed woman frowned, then glanced at Kiana. “Make sure you don’t let any passers-by in the airports touch you. All it takes is someone to spray a little VX nerve agent on the back of your neck, and you’re done.”
Kiana felt her eyes widen. The woman’s words only confirmed her fears.
“Don’t scare her,” Ethan said. He turned to Kiana. “We won’t let anyone get close enough to lay a finger on you, let alone spray you with anything. I promise.”
Ethan scratched subconsciously at his bicep and Kiana caught sight of a large, rough-looking scar under the sleeve of his tee shirt.
Well, if anyone can protect me, it’s him, she thought. Clearly he knows how best to survive these sort of situations.
“Look, Dr. Avesta.” Ethan reached out and patted the back of her hand with one of his coarse ones. “You just have to hold on a little longer. I’ll make a call and ensure someone is there to meet us in Barcelona. You’ll be State-side before you know it. With a new identity, and full police protection.”
Kiana smiled at him. Before he could draw his hand away she had clasped it in her own.
“Ethan, I wish to thank you,” she suddenly gushed. “I wish to thank you for finding me in time, for getting me out alive. Without you, I would have suffered the same fate as my friend. I would be lying dead on the floor of my lab in a pool of blood.” She looked to her right and saw that the other woman’s gaze was on her hand where it clutched at Ethan’s.
Kiana quickly released it, and added, for her benefit: “I wish to thank all of you.”
The woman gave her a stare that was so cool and hard it might have been chiseled out of granite. Then she got to her feet.
“I’m going to take a shower,” the woman said, as the one named William stomped out of the bathroom, drying his hair.
Kiana watched her leave the room. Then she turned to Ethan and said, “I don’t think she likes me.”
Ethan was gazing after the woman’s retreating back.
“I think it’s safe to say,” he said, “that she’s had a bit of a rough evening. We all have.”
9
The flight to Barcelona was at half past ten the following morning.
When William, having slept in a sleeping bag on the lounge floor, rolled over at six-thirty he found Ethan, making use of the Tor browser, skimming through Western news articles on the laptop. Ethan was also eating a breakfast consisting of an omelet, a handful of nuts, some cheese and Barbari bread, and a good strong cup of coffee.
“Is that the early bird I see there on the couch?” William said, rubbing his eyes and propping himself on his elbows.
“Man,” Ethan said, completely ignoring his friend, “you should see the news coverage on this virus. Looks to me as if they’re going to lock down the world at this rate. It’s a good thing we’re getting out of here today.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t really know my ass from my elbow when it comes to the convoluted garbage that comes out of most of the media,” William replied, scratching vigorously somewhere south of the top of his sleeping bag, “but I will tell you this, my friend: there are gonna be a bunch of people who come out the other end of this with a shit-ton of money, and that’s the truth.” The big Texan cast an eye at Ethan’s breakfast. “Some tasty Iranian staples right there, sir.”
“That’s right,” replied Ethan, not looking away from his screen.
“Coffee smells good too.”
Ethan took a slurp from his cup. “There’s coffee on the stove, but if you think that I’m cooking you breakfast then you don’t know your ass from your elbow when it comes to people either.”
William chuckled and got to his feet. He was dressed in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt for the sake of decency, but the clothes did little to hide the obvious slabs of muscle of which he was made.
“You’re a grumpy curmudgeon this mornin’, Ethan,” he said, with a lopsided grin. “And you weren’t even the one that had to sleep on the floor.”
Ethan bridled at this.
“I offered you the couch!” he said, thinking that Hest wouldn’t have fit on the damned couch anyway. Kiana and Bretta had taken the two beds the night before, while Ethan had taken the sofa and William the floor.
William chuckled again. “I’m just messin’ with you, man. You want another cup while I fix myself one?”
“Thanks,” Ethan said and passed his empty cup back to him.
William returned a short while later with two cups and gave one to Ethan.
William took a sip and sighed appreciatively. “What’s that flavor in there?”
“Cardamom. A couple of Jordanian ex-Spec Ops guys got me onto it when we went trekking through Farsa Valley.”
William took another slow, savoring sip. “I always think there’s nothin’ quite like a good cup of coffee to ease the tension a man might feel at almost havin’ his tail shot off the night before.”
Ethan snorted. “So,” he said, the flight is at ten-thirty?”
“Copy that,” William said. “We fly out with Qatar Airways. As is par for the course in this sort of scenario, we’re going to pay cash at the desk for the tickets, right?”
“Correct,” Ethan confirmed.
“All right,” William said. “There’s somethin’ else too, Ethan.”
Ethan cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“What with how companies and governments are freakin’ out, there ain’t a single direct flight from Tehran to Barcelona.”
Ethan swallowed a mouthful of omelet whole at this news. Of all the things he had not bargained for, it was this. “What?” he choked.
“Yeah. Nothin’,” William said.
“So, what are you telling me?” Ethan managed, taking a gulp of coffee to free his airways of egg.
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“Well, the best flight that I could find––this flight––includes a plane change in none other than Istanbul,” William said. “Where this all started.”
“Damn it,” Ethan said. “How long is the stop?”
“We literally walk from one gate to another,” William explained. “If we had baggage it’d be goin’ straight on through. You’re that worried about these Kidon guys?”
“Any time our feet are on the ground is a chance for them to take Kiana out. I’m banking on the Kidon’s handlers to know though, that a bunch of Israeli and U.S covert operators getting into a fight over an Iranian national in a Turkish airport is probably not what any one government needs right now.”
“Yeah, you won’t get a much more volatile set of ingredients than that...” William said.
Ethan tore the generous portion of Barbari bread––the thick flatbread that was ubiquitous when it came to Persian breakfasts––in half and handed one portion to William.
“We don’t have a choice,” Ethan said. “We run the gauntlet and trust to luck. We’ve done that more than once before.”
William’s voice was muffled with bread as he replied. “Can’t we just get Sam to send in an Iron Horse?” he asked, referring to the DIA’s custom Gulfstream G650. “Have it come in under the guise of a charter jet?”
Ethan shook his head. “I talked to Sam already. All of our charter jets are currently tied up in other operations—we’re not the only ones experiencing problems finding transportation. The earliest she could get one here is Thursday.”
William nodded. “All right then. It’s not ideal, but at least our course is a simple one.”
“What could possibly go wrong huh?” Ethan quipped, his voice dripping with false cheer.
Before William could deliver what, no doubt, would have been a withering sarcastic reply, one of the bedroom doors creaked open and Bretta walked out. She had her duffel bag packed and in her hands. She was dressed in the same tight jeans she had worn the day before, along with a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and her boots. Her sable hair was concealed under a shawl that covered her head and was wrapped elegantly across her shoulders. In short, she looked every inch the Western tourist dressing in a way that respected the local customs.
Boiling Point (An Ethan Galaal Thriller Book 4) Page 8
